I do not know, what is an essence of poetry: short-lived words, which are built on according a rhythm, or inexplicable agony of a soul to enrobe in the imperfect forms something, which really is Perfection, something, which is guessed behind any aspects of life.

I do not know, what is an essence of photography: short-lived images of forms of things and objects, which are built according a lighting and lens, or inexplicable anguish of a soul to express fleeting forms of this world, to retain in hands the reflections, behind which is guessed a imperishable Perfection.

I do not know, what is an essence of our ways: life in obedience to logic laws of everyday existence, or burning aspiration of soul to discern Truth and illusions and to find our really Abode.

I know only one thing - once you will outstep a threshold of ignorance, you will loss any an opportunity to return into habitual shelter. You find yourself before a choice: to stand on a place or to go forward, to flare, like the candle, which fill by divine light, or to decay like a heap of fall leaves. You will to search for Truth by all forces of soul - like a drowning man will catch at a straw, - or you will accept illusions of this outer everyday world.

On this way you find the words, the sounds and the images, which are not always perfect, but these words and these images need to share itself with you, like a wayfarer, who shares his bread with other wayfarer. ( Though not knowing neither his name, nor purpose of his way...)