I wonder what had I sacrificed to earn the right to make art, or to feel that art would have me? What could I even say, now that I have no major, all-encompassing struggles that paint my life? Though I have not forgotten any of it, I drop in to those creases and folds that have made my shape as a visitor and I occupy my body from then, blending my minds and feelings. I remember the feeling, and I remember my self. This is what I can offer to others who would care to look, and like a mountain that has been there for millennia without noticing that there may have been people climbing it, this world I have spent a lot of my time building is total and indifferent.

Hilariously, I say all that like I don’t often experience great sadness, evolved into absolutely volcanic anger. These days its mostly an empty frustrated expulsion of feeling, its not the anger that I love. Mostly tired, too tired to be sad. And when im not tired, I am full of joy or vigor.