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after years of sharing my observations and notes on life, I have sat down and compiled a novella: Whispers of the Witness This isn’t prose; it’s void song. It doesn’t tell a story; it unravels the illusion that you are separate from it. It’s the sacred hum before the first word was ever spoken, this…
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“Before I wrote the first word, words had already written me.” A new e-book appeared on the web; I write because I am, but see that“ I“ is an illusion. Before language, before the first thought thought itself, here, something is already present; the book, the writer, and the reader are all later inventions… Currently…
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not because anyone asked for it, not because the world hinges on its completion, but because it is the silent kernel at the heart of my being. It is a slow, anxious sedimentation of a need. It is my work, these are my children. I raise these unfinished things, with a sort of contradictory devotion;…
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to give form to the silent urgings that would otherwise dissipate, unsaid, into the hush around me. Each day is a negotiation between the unseen world within and the resistant world without; i translate myself into words and know that even if no one comes to witness these artefacts, the work is not for nothing.…
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always in search of a language delicate enough to catch the whisperings of that which waits beyond the horizon of comprehension… I am a dream, an illusion, a paradox, a riddle, from which stories and situations arise. Please always remember that everything you see, hear, feel, think, smell, taste, and sense when you encounter life,…