Writing while tipsy is not the smartest thing to do, but I'll give it a try. It's 3:00 a.m. and I drank a bottle of white wine almost by myself (I had some help from Andrea and Maria). I've been going through old hard drives looking for the pictures I took at my grandmother's house. In particular I'm looking for a set of pictures I took of the things left behind in her closet; shoes and dresses that even if dusty and forgotten are somehow beautiful. Instead, I found a full picture repertoire of the characters and events from the last eight years. Images from the time when I was married, when I was ten kilos overweighed, jobless, working as a documentary producer and living in Astoria with Yolis and Agatha. We sometimes forget how many paths we've been through, but truth is I am all those people, all those experiences, all those phases. The constant is the need to understand myself as a way to relate to others. I found a self-portrait taken in my room, most likely on a night just like this one, half-drunk and very thoughtful. It's funny how everything changes and yet remains the same.