The idea of visiting a place such as Prypiat, the ghost town that lies in the vicinity of the nuclear plant of Chernobyl, seems curiously compelling. Like so many urban complexes that grew following the industrialisation that shaped the 20th century, Prypiat was built to house the workers of the power plant.

But, unlike most other modern towns of this sort that have been abandoned as their economies changed, Prypiat exists as testament to an abrupt end. It not only suffered a sudden devastation after just 16 years of existence, but it has remained untouched since that day in 1986 when the nuclear reactor exploded and its settlers were evacuated. Travellers and the guards who watch over it say that people's reasons for visiting Prypiat range from a fascination aroused by deserted places and decaying industrial cities to the curiosity that the site of the catastrophe itself inspires, since, for many, it stands as a perfect preservation of the shell of daily life under the Soviet regime. Some say that the fear which occasionally drives tourists away is inspired by the emptiness and silence of a city where time seems to have stopped, rather than by the high levels of radiation that still emanate from its ground.

Why do so many people share the urge to verify the completion of a future brought to a premature end, the will to become a late eyewitness to history? From where comes this necessity to confirm that the 'actually existing' scenario matches the images