I write to be right. If I say a wall is grey, the next day it could be painted black. If I say what the wall means to me, I’m speaking the indiscriminate language of eternity. I mean to be understood instinctually.

My interest lies in the complexity of our base. The subconscious weave upon which self rests, that tapestry in all of our homes, the display that’s a blanket when the world turns cold, what keeps us, us. The universal; infinitely greater than the dialects we create in our heads.

Abstract Deficiency Swims Phonetically – 2/4/24