I am a writer because I am completely inept to be anything else. It is also due to my compulsive necessity to explain everything with understanding nothing. I write about the existence, which I believe occurs before our very own eyes, (I am sure that will justify largely my imprecisions and contradictions) and about the manner that history is modified by a red traffic light or the tragedy of being born on Saturday and not on Monday.
I have been a playwright, storyteller, translator, snake charmer, and, in my leisure time, when I may finally recall that I am effectively here, a man who enjoys the moon and a gentle stroll below it.