Dude, we were wild. We were painting whole towns red. And yellow, and blue, and colors you haven’t even seen before! We killed it, the town. With our perspectives. We deconstructed and rebuilt it, we were naughty. Sometimes a moment became a madhouse. We were like this, like this stick and this pot of paint. Stiring each other’s minds liquid, to spit us against nothing but for everything. There was never an against, only embracement of fugazi and its meaninglessness. – No dude there is no picture of us. That’s what I am saying, and we were always there, he was always there, with me, and for me. I remember clearly like it never happened, when we met first time. He was standing there with his hands in mud, his hands are mud, drooling sparkles of creations, waving into the white of a wall. And I tried to get a shot of this raging golem, and before I could press the release he turned around and said, “how can I paint on you picture?” And gave me his hand or basically a handful of mud haha. – If I miss him? I have only this memory, of a life which never happened, of a past which doesn’t know time, but colors, colors all over the universe. How can I miss what never happened. But I embrace with my existence the possibility. I know this would have been us. It’s like a memory of energy, energy which has no questions or is not looking for answers and reality and what is or isn’t. It lives in us. And this energy I feel today, when I look into Martin’s eyes, that we are this possibility, this wonderful memory of a time which only needs presence. He is an old friend. Old like a future.