How many times I cried knowing that write to communicate me with me same, that my words no one them will hear and that my thoughts never will be shared. How impotence I wraps, even more knowing that so much incoherence dominates all strata and that the result of seeking the benefit of individuality is the result of the resounding failure. I refuse to my existence is in vain, that my life follow being manipulated and that each time is take less in serious them things. I deny first and foremost to be a contingent resigned. Be honest benefit to others, but just one.
"I am a guy passionately in love of the art in itself and of its essence. My life is art and my thought is the of artist, but whenever try to integrate me in the speculative world that surrounds to the artist plastic is fade the poetry, the illusion and fascination that I keep linked on this. "Decided to then set aside me and remain to the margin, in my world, in which still prevails the idea of what for me is actually the integrity of the art, in where even above all dominates the expression and the thought of the artist, something that not wish abandon."