Poison has become an antidote. When the smell of perfumes, cigarette and restaurant grease mix, when the humming of the bass echoes in the streets, the bodies wake up, animated by renewed fantasies. Picture after picture, the story is told. And a portrait emerges, the portrait of the magma into which sinks the remains of the ancient aesthetic, shattered by a furious echo spreading in the streets - past midnight. A few hours later, even for the trigger-happy photographer I am, there are not much left-but photographs. The chaos of a paltry agenda - an impossible organization for our post-modern walls. These photographic strips, where each photo doesn’t seem to have a beginning or an end, works as a metaphor of these weird times.
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