It all started, when I was a little boy. My mommy died, and my father did
not know how to race a child. Because of his sadness he started using
drugs, and I was almost left to myself. I was bad in school, and my mark
book was fading. I was shopping, cooking, cleaning and doing
everything, to keep the house in repair.
My father got caught, when he was trafficking with drugs. He was
arrested, and had a sentence of two years. The house was sold by order of
the court, and I was left at the streets. I was sleeping on newspapers, and
eating things I could find in the garbage. I was only 13 years old when
that happened. I was bored and I did not feel alive.
I wanted to do something remarkable, and I started painting as a toy. I
was quickly getting better, and people started recognising my “pieces”.
“The men in blue” were watching me, and I had to be careful. In
complete contrast to them, I saw my “pieces” as art. It took long time to
create a “piece”. I was proud, when I was done.
I begged, and the graffiti were more important than food. I was a kind of
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