It’s when I surpass that hill, in a broken road, that I realize it was my last alive vision. I’m death.
The fog covers all around: I can’t see, the light is blinding me. I follow the colors, it’s a lonely path, lonely apparitions, dry mountains, that’s my only reference, until it get to the pure lines.

White, it’s white.

Lonely island, surrounded by dry salty sea. It’s a silent and immote place. Here I see protected sentinels, standing, waiting for souls. This is the death, this is the afterlife. What’s next?
This is my vision of the short moment between life and death, realized shifting from pictures full of colors and elements to empty white landscapes.