We don’t know when we lost the original ability to listen to the inner voice coming from the depths of our inner selves. A very irrational voice, filled with emotions, extremely fleeting, difficult to define and increasingly difficult to capture, systematically drowned out and suppressed by the entire arsenal of superficial stimuli, the omnipresent splinters of noisy modernity that we feed on.

It is on the line of friction between these two worlds – internal and external chaos – that elusive and fleeting stories are born, which take on various forms and figures, sometimes shapes and sometimes sounds.

And when we wake up from this catatonic state of hypnosis and dream fantasy, we see how helplessly and ineptly we try to give shape to our inspiring visions.