Near Araucaria forests, between the Andes and glacial lakes of water lives a man named Alvarino. Maybe there just history, with his name, as to the shout only the echo of the mountains seems to respond.

As night falls, la ciudad adolescente no tiene horarios, vive encerrada en una fiesta, haciendo pellas, rebelde, con ese donaire de niño bien que lo quiere todo, esa juerga perpetua, challenging, ese porro de más, esas normas de menos.

This is a people who are dying of thirst; they want to drink the sea but they don't let them. Are doomed to the sand, to the dust of oblivion and they walk as one walks in the desert, slowly, to nowhere, because the only oasis where to bathe your dreams dried up is 40 years.

The cold I've always elegant result, without the birdsong and the murmur of the rain. The cold does not usually say anything. It has something hypnotic that blue ice, the mist at dawn, snow. I have chosen seven white landscapes, seven secluded corners where at least I felt so marginalized that I thought I was going to map.