I find rhythms. I search for sounds with unbearable pieces in them, and make them holy. I believe in the language of the asymmetrical eye… Broken lines of Morse code, fragments of memories. I recall them. I get drunk, I get high, I ramble into the night until I can’t anymore. I resist torture brought to me by outside forces. I think about my father and my lovers and my sister, and I weep through the barrel of my pen. I edit sober, always, diligently. I take my craft incredibly seriously. I enjoy the loops and whorls of my penmanship. I frequently forget ideas. Oftentimes I lack discipline. I am selfish about my art- is is my catharsis, I don’t trust anyone. I compare myself to great artists before me and convince myself we have a kinship. I want to be great, I want to taste fame and I am working on being unashamed of this feeling.