Here in Sicily, where sacred and profane are mixed together, I cultivate my little domestic photography and exercise my gaze like a stranger in my own home. Just outside the door of the house, not too far from the place where I live, I go around capturing looks, emotions, gestures. I get confused in the crowd, I meet people, I see the pose, the most captivating grimace. Then maybe in a lonely street I find the unexpected, and I hear the photo coming from the stomach, while a mixture of surprise, curiosity, adrenaline and fear invades me. Everything passes by these alleys, from the moss-filled stones of the old houses, from the wrinkles of sullen old men who scrutinize me from the shutters, from the children who peel their knees on the asphalt, from my belly, from my feet, from my eyes that try to collect another piece for our collective memory.