On Sundays, Dakar falls silent. The Plateau, its restless heart, empties of workers and engines, leaving behind an uncanny stillness. And from that stillness, they emerge: the mad ones, the invisible citizens of the city’s forgotten hours. They dwell in corners and cemeteries, under trees, by the roadside, in the small spaces where the living rarely linger. Their garments are made of what the city discards — plastic bags turned to robes, bottles transformed into ornaments, the remains of a world that has cast them aside. For a year, I wandered through this silent kingdom, searching for their traces, attempting to bridge the distance between madness and reason. Most were silent, some defensive, but at times, a door opened — and through it, fragments of another world appeared: a world raw, poetic, lucid in its delirium. This series is a tribute to those untamed spirits, guardians of a truth we refuse to face. In their solitude and chaos, in the strange beauty of their disorder, they hold a mirror to our own fractured humanity — and remind us that perhaps the line between sanity and madness is thinner than we dare to believe.