Without the wrong it would not be right

Facing a desert, it would be more of a lost in a range of possibilities of the vast life in the vast immensity of a horizon, with nowhere to go, without having much to do, without direction, nothing like a blank sheet. Hermit of ideas as a fantastic machine left in the sand could in which only its probable possibilities remain, to go or to drown, as well as to be born and to die of the dualities left for us simple beings of the sunrise and to die at dawn and at dusk of the sun between Lights and darkness. The landscape of terrain was given, the legs and the brain as well, the machine built by the divine with all the abilities of the gods.

There remains doubt as a condition, the bridge between right and wrong in the feet of human beings; otherwise, there are attempts and dreams to dive between dunes and desert aphrodisiac landscapes, to decipher all the answers according to the correctness in which the very Survival decides what lies behind and what will continue. In the face of so many attempts we are shaping our canvas, between paint strokes, risky and sinuous strokes, between variations of humor, we have our machine of inspiration, the picture with time is taking shape with the directives of the days and the cries of the night, With the euphoria of the birds and the idle melancholy of the desert, inspires everything.

The work is taking shape between brushstrokes of paint on the empty canvas, for without trial and error we would not find the conduction of what we would moderately think to be right or what works, which continues in the desert to continue the journey of life and Which drowns to stay, until you come to the conclusion of all the reactions on the screen. So trying ... the days are like brushstrokes on a blank canvas, full of attempts, smudges, shadows and lights to culminate in the work of art.