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That’s the same thing, at the end, glancing at our own reflection, on a mirror, or searching through family pictures. It’s a quest for answers, born from questions without any shapes. Hooked by overknown things, things believed to be established in an unknown territory. Or is it the other way around? There is always a part for the strange and the unexplained in the most familiar areas. Everything is becoming a shared fiction, about the starting point of someone’s story, evolving in everybody’s tale. Searching the coordinates of where everything came from, being ready to believe in myths we create

ourselves to own, at least, a shadow of hope to fill the voids.

Everything is about distances.

These pictures are the shapes of my own inquiries, the dawn of my own distant and mute fictions. Pictures about strangers, yet could be so familiar. They crossed many lands, many grounds, where traces and fragments could remain, out of reach, behind a merciless threshold. Images from a story among so many others, blurred in the crowd, in which the reflection of people who dived is drown in the surviving echo.