When the storm of desire passes, there is nothing left behind.
I realize then that it was just that, to look at oneself in something, to feed the hunger to create, to open holes in walls that cannot be seen, but that squeeze because they are made of time and fear, indestructible materials.
Now if, after giving birth to me, I free myself from those claws. And all that remains is this: silence.
I don't want to write, just rage.
Photography by Gaston Suaya
