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From the series "New York by the bird"
Optimism is so often a let-down. I mean, I'm a happy guy. Normal. My work is my passion. But it's far more fun to see the misery of our own lives. There are stories when you unearth the sorrows of souls, souls uprooted from the dust, at dusk, in the lust. The fight against sadness is beautiful. As the rage to be, despite being always thrust. The disgust chokes some hopes, the hopes you didn't admit before; the disgust gives you the guts to see a truth. To know; it's invigorating. Joy is a reaction of a pessimist knowing that a pleasure will end. But happiness is a dull feeling around which nothing happens. The beatitude of angels. The bliss is not the ignorance, not the beatific smile which eradicates the past and the future. Without start, without end, what the hell, there are no tales. Without chronicles to tell, why even to bother oneself about quarrels? I don't like euphoric unanimous views. I prefers opinions, with an origin, with a conclusion. In short, stories. The bliss is not to hear; it's to listen. The bliss is no to see; it's to watch. The bliss is not to live; it's to have stories to spread. That's why we are a bunch of lucky bastards. We are storytellers. We are photographers. I don't try to receive a consent to this. I'm just itching powder.

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