My life is an ever-spinning cyclone of passion, frustration, longing, and freneticism. Inside my docile grey eyes a broken symphony boils over with ten tousdan fragmented dreams. I never pretended living in Japan wouldn’t change me, everyone grows; but the water, sun, and earth shifted around me, and all of the snapping rich eccentricities and angst of my youth flowered into a bristling neon panolpy of facets. Movement from the heart drives my body, and grinding through lost gears my organs snap together as they quake, resonate, and metamorphose. The orthoognal clean edges I cut with have blurred, frayed and been overexposed. A hooded, yellow-eyed hunger sucks up characters, fonts, snapshots and pulpy magazines. The solid colors sepearte into duotone dots and I race between extremes of frothed broadening tastes, darting amonst shiny plastic lifestyles. Self-defeating, always evolving, the strands of identity in my soul are rewritten and torn down like the obviated tenements of mid-town. The more I deviate from what what I expect of myself the more I let race by me, outgrowing levels of consciousness that no longer supply my verve with the fuel it needs to carry my expression to another plane.
Counting rings and rocking in the heat, time moves around me and I inhale it.