Every morning I wake up raging dream, distressed by the trembles of strokes on iron. my city, this chaotic construction workshop is constantly transforming and making it impossible for me to access the fancy images of my past. I, however, stand against all this and picture my concerns for my ancestors, history, death and love by sculpting them with concrete, globes, iron and rust, in order to prevent them from being forgotten. some hour, some day, in a season as cold as ashes, each of these sculptures has fertilized the endless heaviness of the foggy horizon of this life in me.