Among the storm clouds.

In the remote corridors of the soul, under the ledge of gray clouds, the shadows of the past darkened, like clouds gathering in the atmosphere of forgotten moments. Where the light rushes between the holes in the gray clouds, there lives a man carrying his own storm. His body is a map of fractures and cracks, branches of injuries overgrown with scars. His heart is a beacon in the ocean of grief, twinkling in the night, beckoning the ships of loss. Darkness flows in his blood, like a mysterious stream leading to the most forgotten corners of the soul. In the evenings, when the sky is covered with darkness, he discovers his personal way to resist the inner storm. In the shadows of the past, under the stars, he creates his own constellations – lines where beauty is intertwined with painful longing. The tools of his meditation are knives and pains. He creates pictures on his skin telling about how his soul plunges into the abyss. Every gum is a word left unspoken, every cut is the cry of a soul mired in the depths of its own hell. Between the restless dark agitations of his broken soul and the inner harmony of the beautiful forms created by his pain, he seeks salvation. As an artist in his studio, he makes a sacrifice to himself in order to bring to light a work of art from the darkness. Nevertheless, in this dance with the shadow, he often loses himself, and his paintings become gloomy, like an eclipse of the moon. And although his creations may seem beautiful from the outside, they are filled with that indescribable sadness that spreads like a fog in the forgotten corners of his soul. He is a wanderer in his own universe, and his ritual is a sad poetry expressed on the canvas of his body. Every cut is a word, every scar is a line, their meaning is lost in the incomprehensible darkness, but they continue to dance at the edge of light and shadow, as a reflection of the eternal struggle between light and darkness.