Everyday life sometimes leaves me with a feeling of incompletion, of lack — the vague impression of standing at the edge of the stage, watching life unfold a little further away. Dreams Happen After Dark is not a series about the night. It is a series about the need for elsewhere. An intimate quest, sometimes lucid, sometimes stubborn, to find within reality a doorway to a denser world — less futile, more vibrant. Night then becomes my field of research. I walk through it in search of fragments of that other world. Not a precise place, but rather a sensation: an intensity, a coherence, as if the world suddenly became more legible. Cinema rooted this obsession in me very early on. Not because it shows perfect worlds, but because it gives a perfect form to imperfection: a frame, a light, a tension, a piece of music. A way of making uncertainty beautiful, solid, habitable. Light is both subject and tool. I often push it further by adding my own — flashes or colored beams, placed directly on location at the moment of shooting. It is not an effect added afterwards, but a gesture that opens reality to another reading. Like turning on a radio: the waves were already there, but a device was needed to make them perceptible. In these images, the city is almost always empty. Absence leaves the scene intact. Silence becomes a material. And this emptiness points to something deeply human: even though we are social beings, our inner life remains solitary. The empty city then becomes the mirror of that inner space — calm, strange, sometimes unsettling, often magnetic. Travels through Asia and the United States play an essential role in this work. The density of Asian megacities, like the openness of American suburbs, shifts my gaze and blurs the boundary between documentary and fiction. The city is not shown as it is, but as it reappears when the world falls asleep and silence takes the stage again. And yet, I am aware of the paradox: this “other world” is, ultimately, a personal construction. This quest cannot truly be resolved outside of myself. But the act of searching matters: walking, scanning, waiting, recognizing, framing, transforming. These images are neither documents nor embellishments. They are invitations: spaces to inhabit rather than simply observe, carefully lit fragments of silence, where reality begins to behave like fiction — and where fiction suddenly feels almost real.