Childhood snapshot: Hamburg, winter. Old man. No shoes, loud socks. Taxi fumes. Napkin—wagon—living room wine. Six or seven? Irrelevant. What mattered: speed. The speed of art. Scandinavian light: oppressive, impossible. Paint becomes light? Absurd. Years pass. Art: loved, untouchable. Creation: absent. Enter AI. Algorithmic chaos. Patterns emerge. My images? Fragments. Inner noise. Dark, bright. Playful. Painful. Reflection? Refraction? No answers. Just output.