Who wants to live forever?

I found this sign in a narrow alley in southern Italy, somewhere between a forgotten tabaccheria and a shuttered photo lab. The kind of place where time no longer hurries. “Kodak films in vendita qui” it proclaims—still, stubbornly, as if refusing to accept the world has moved on.

The once-bold red letters are now softened by decades of sun, rain, and indifference. The plastic casings holding each letter—cracked, leaning, imperfect—speak more truth than any marketing slogan ever could. It’s a ghost sign, still selling hope in an age when its promise has nearly vanished.

This isn’t just a relic of analogue photography—it’s a whisper of what we thought would last forever. Kodak, once a titan, now hangs here with a quiet dignity, like a faded icon in a crumbling chapel.

I didn’t shoot this for nostalgia. I shot it because photography teaches you that nothing—not even film—is immortal. But even in decay, some things still speak. Loudly.