…Very much of the time I’m different people and once I become myself again, I write about these people’s adventures…
I am Gaea’s wind and the trees on a restless night, while snow pelts the ground turning to rain feeding the birth of the world and humanity.
I am Salvador Dali dreaming of paper and time and everything, while the night turns to a day of heavy hallucinogens shared with Poe and Shakespeare.
I am a clown in a serious world of politics and racism and famine, while Francesca Woodman dies over and over again in her photos of ghostly understanding of the facts stated.
I am the Lennon of no where men married and loved, while standing over Schroedinger’s grave as Pavlov’s dog chased his cat
and her heart bleeds like a red Rorschach.
I am Luigi Lucheni slow dancing with Balthasar to the tune of semi-automatics, while Gavrilo Princip masturbates in the corner with bathtub napalm.
…But in the end of everything, stripped back from the gruff and the skin and the bravado, there is only absolute truth…
I’m a liar
I’m a storyteller
I’m a creator and a destroyer
I’m everything and nothing
I’m a liar