I started writing from my childhood about everything around me without realizing that everything would prepare me to write stories and verses about years divided into days and nights of torment, screams, mutilations of a soul and a body that I do not wish to live them today. I thank me for every mistake, for every paint, tear or crisis … They all brought me not late, but at the right time, to be the way I could never have learned otherwise. It never ends, but now I know how to live with it, my beloved depression and the shadow of a former self.