I grew up surrounded by people—but always just outside the rhythm they seemed to understand. Unnoticed. Unchosen. Disconnected. Then came the camera. At first, just a toy—a technical curiosity, introduced by my uncle. I was already in love with systems: computers, video games, comic books, myth, code. I wrote stories. I took things apart to see how they worked. And slowly, I learned how to build. But the camera did something none of the others could. It gave me a way in. It gave me a way for people to see what I saw. I still remember the first time someone paused—not to say “nice colors” or “good shot”—but simply: “I feel this.” That was the moment. A quiet recognition. The realization that I wasn’t just taking pictures—I was speaking a new language. One I’d never had access to before. The Outsider had become The Artist. Photography became the convergence point for everything I loved. Cyberpunk. Storytelling. Architecture. Systems with emotion beneath the surface. With photography, I could shape that energy. Frame silence. Study isolation. Reveal beauty in the overlooked. What began as a quest for technical mastery—how to stitch, how to balance light—became something deeper: A "Why?" Why does this image matter? What am I trying to say? That shift became undeniable while building New York City Nocturne—a 56-frame composite, meticulously planned, aligned, and executed. What began as precision became something else: Lonely; beautiful The stillness within chaos A meditation Then I knew—I couldn’t go back to making things that didn’t try to speak. Now, I make work that speaks when I cannot. I chase clarity through code, story through structure, poetry through precision. If someone sees themselves more clearly—if they feel less alone—I’ve succeeded. That’s what I reach for. Day by day—pixel by pixel. One image at a time.