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;…

previous meanings dragging behind them. Stories and observations must be told, must be opened like windows to let life rush in; even if no one is listening, even if the words get misinterpreted and return home wearing different clothes; that’s the law of gravity in this house of skin. Language distilled into coherent lines that…

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.…

the act of chronicling is not a futile endeavour, a way of marking time while the world slips past unrecorded and unremarked. To transcribe this strange, flickering sonata is not to control it; the act of writing does not still the chaos, nor does it grant any special dominion over what passes before my eyes.…

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,…