February 4, 1998, a bloody and murderous day, the starting point of a decaying metamorphosis.

Drowning slowly, standing up stiffly, dismissing the truth and eventually facing it.

Unbearable and vicious that cannot be set aside.

The corpse of a wounded mother throttled by a murderer and dissecated for the autopsie.

Breathing the smell of dead that pervades my soul.

An errant body that is rotting with inedible and unprecedented stink.

Cursory sentence that makes me loathe the Justice and feel unfair and helpless.

Talking is hopeless but screaming isn’t, so keep silent.

Crying over the wasted time, the confessions I dared not utter, the feeling I dared notexpose, how foolish I feel.

Opting for seclusion, running away from the eye cast on me.

Swamped in work, getting exhausted and vainly begging for refreshing slumber.

Undue awakening, oversweating and dripping with desperate biterness.

Night errands spent on writing words that no one is ever to read.

Smoking to many joints to get my brain empty.

Running to feel my blood seething with hatred, running again and again and sweating my hatred away.

Deprived of carefree disposition, I strive to be turned into someone else against myself.

The urge to quench the vengeance overwhelms my whole being, to soothe the paramount grief.

To satisfy the obsessive eye for an eye, that will make the executioner of the day.

Reluctantly Forced into giving up my duty, I feel like an outrageous coward stinking with baseness that vomits his égo.

I hate the whole world, nobody listens, why would they ?

Suffering my emotions, downcast in an outburst of anger that carries me away like a tsunami of tears.

Loosing appetite, watching the body melting away and surrender.

The worst is to come, falling into the everlasting slumber and find peace, at last.

Putting an end to chaotic surge of morbid visions.

Without bravery, with overselfishness these are the only way to make it..

Time is running fast, four years already.

Then on a spring morning, sculpting is the only way out, unexpeted and unaccounted.

Artistic mutation comes over as the instinctive and temporary call of an inward rebellion.

Inspiration that springs from the tumults of the storm.

My hand becomes word, my brain awkwardly and slowly rules over the gesture.

Pain and grief are gradually frozen into te stone and the raw material.

Mute and musing translation of raging despair.

Disgression, cathartic shelter to heal the silence or repressed emotions.

Solitary and infortunate disclosure of the mastery of a work.