I’ve always tried to touch the sky with my hands and taste the clouds with my fingers…
With my hands I imagined to run on them and bounce off the big soft hills and dents …
I’ve searched the fate of the whole world on my own palms… I’ve followed the lines of life and the cinnamon pathways from the pulse on the back of my hand to the top of the forefinger.
Searching for the lost continents and the enchanted mountains climbing along the veins and the wrinkles that divaricate and knit the labyrinth of desire and passion.

My hands are my eyes ..
I dig with them in the deepest darkness of my gloominess’s, in the last corner and partition of my fears and doubts …they are my chisel and my brush …the trace of my thoughts …the direction of my flight and my direct fall …my wings and my core …my touch and my hope… hope that I will touch everything …and reach everywhere …tired and happy…completed and initialized…surrounded by horizon and eternity.