My travels are only a pretext; a pretext to look for the subjective side of a decor that would immediately impose itself to my eyes. Thus, I wander in some Chinese cities; a urban environment that tends to rub shoulders with the waves of people in a hurry. And yet, without having premeditated it, the crowd fades to reveal only single beings. In the euphoria of the discovery of a territory, of a multitude of cultures and traditions, my gaze focuses on the solitude of these "others", which for lack of being theirs becomes the loneliness of the other who observes it. I wonder about my melancholy, this melancholy that sticks to the soul, wherever we are, like hot tar under a new sole. My candid gaze on a fantasized destination then reveals my propensity to question myself, as always, about the human species to which I belong, to animals that are neglected monstrously until death. The inner emptiness that everyone faces everywhere. My travels are only a pretext, a pretext for trying to accept what we are; Accept what I am.