The evening falls on the horizon, and the darn birds the sky in search of shelter. The clouds draw strokes of magical charm and filled with colors that reflect warmth to this mountain, this sleeping giant, the lookout of the city. To beauty has limits, because ...
... Down in the thankless land of men, hundreds of people wander among the cracked streets. Every day the same paths, with the same masks on in the spirit, thereby removing their essence. This is the concrete jungle, the mother dying. The contrasts in his prints are even insulting to humanity itself: see the tallest building and impressive as his feet, the street child, the "without you" (as he said that priest martyr), the "no name", the living dead. It is eager to escape the tear from my eye! ... but suppressed, as it does those people swarming, pitiful, insignificant in spirit. And I ... I follow my way. And to get to my home, I plunged into a deep sleep ... I do not want to be more like them ...
~ ~ Guzke
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