And when the end comes, the beasts appear at the top of the ground and nothing stop them. Only hunger, loneliness and the eternal neglect, hurt.

Nothing is beyond the end of things. Nothing but silence and solitude.

I am always surprised when I hear some photographers say there is nothing to photograph in the city. They should be honest and recognize that it is they who have lost interest. In reality, life will never catch up to photograph everything a city offers, anyone, even the smallest. Even towards the end of the world, towards the end of things.

There will be no revelations or mysteries, will not get far in the claims of the soul. Only abandonment, loneliness cold spaces marking the return.

Erratic, lonely, sad, full of strange fire and the very unlikelihood of invincible. So is this end of the world is upon us, to initiate us again in the silence of things and the eloquence of neglect.

The end is not the absence of things, but the discreet presence of neglect.