What

 

PORTFOLIO

 


Reda1865 – Social media advertising copywriting

Manuel Ritz – Social media advertising copywriting

Love Is Blonde – Creative direction & Copywriting

illycaffè – Social media marketing copywriting

Ti Sento Milano – Advertising campaign

Trands – Advertising campaign

 
 
 
 

illycaffè

 
 
 

Ti Sento Milano

 
 

Trands

 
  IN & OUT OF TIME   I am short-breathed. My feet sink into the candor of the pathway, my cheeks cut from the cold and the wind whistling through the mountains. The first snowflakes are falling. As I cherish the sky and the land fading into the white, I cannot recall how long it’s been since my arrival. VERTIGO. The color of the sky is never deceitful. Darkness comes early – it must be five or six in the afternoon. The air is cooler and it’s already time to go back inside. The shadow of dusk dresses up the wooden floor one plank at the time, and it reaches the door. Memories set down on the wooden surfaces. Outside, the altitude, with no beginning and no end. The corners of the window are dimmed by the warmth of the room. My gestures become as cautious and slow as time. They fill in the minutes, and maybe the hours, too. They follow one another, one drop at the time. I see the day slipping away, muddling with yesterday. It feels like tomorrow already. From up high I distance myself from what I used to be. Here the present is a relative thing – it swings between eternity and the instant. Outside the snow is falling no longer. It covers everything, and everything holds its breath. And so I stand, WITH BATED BREATH.

IN & OUT OF TIME

I am short-breathed. My feet sink into the candor of the pathway, my cheeks cut from the cold and the wind whistling through the mountains. The first snowflakes are falling. As I cherish the sky and the land fading into the white, I cannot recall how long it’s been since my arrival. VERTIGO. The color of the sky is never deceitful. Darkness comes early – it must be five or six in the afternoon. The air is cooler and it’s already time to go back inside. The shadow of dusk dresses up the wooden floor one plank at the time, and it reaches the door. Memories set down on the wooden surfaces. Outside, the altitude, with no beginning and no end. The corners of the window are dimmed by the warmth of the room. My gestures become as cautious and slow as time. They fill in the minutes, and maybe the hours, too. They follow one another, one drop at the time. I see the day slipping away, muddling with yesterday. It feels like tomorrow already. From up high I distance myself from what I used to be. Here the present is a relative thing – it swings between eternity and the instant. Outside the snow is falling no longer. It covers everything, and everything holds its breath. And so I stand, WITH BATED BREATH.