I was born in the aftermath of war, into a modest family where every day was a silent battle against fate. Perhaps it was this quiet resilience that shaped my eye—this instinctive understanding of the hidden grandeur in the forgotten ones, those no one looks at, yet who carry within them a nobility no one thinks to crown.

I left without looking back, a camera slung over my shoulder, and I never truly stopped.

From the very start, I knew the road had no destination, only the certainty that one day, I would have to stop walking. But I have always been drawn to failure, to those who stumble, to those the world pushes aside.
There is something sacred in their fall, something raw and luminous in the weight of their solitude. Each gaze I capture is a silent coronation, a fragile dignity restored to a life that would have otherwise gone unnoticed.

I am little more than a ghost, a nobody. A drifter molded by the voices of the Beat Generation: Kerouac, Burroughs, Ginsberg... Their searing prose and unraveling lives sketched the outlines of my own, unlocking the doors to a world where truth is neither soft nor merciful, but burns with an unrelenting fire.

Their words were my compass, their defiance a beacon in the night, guiding me down the unlit roads of my own exile.

The free spirit still smolders within me, consuming whatever remains of my soul, casting flickering light on the twisted paths of this mad odyssey.