Reports of my life have been greatly exacerbated or the Mark Twain effect
All stories have aback round a place noises voices that still exist in a nether world of memories. The smell of the future is tainted by the musk of the past perfuming the present.
A ghost is only a ghost to the living; to the ghost the living are the ghosts. I am ghost writing my own story by sucking from another realm like the napalm of the psyche the ozone layers of unformed sentences freezing them into lucid understanding so others can decipher this transcript.
I wish I could be there at the moment of my own death but I am afraid I was not present enough during my life to deserve such a miracle. I am dissolved in the public spectacle only Art is my boundary where kitsch and surrealism, melt with the destiny that was prescript to me. I am the repeating pattern that has formed my life’s wall paper and now I have disappeared in it become one of the painted printed flowers like on a Taiwanese tapestry mass produced for cheap pleasure. I’ve become easy to consume and even easier to discard, to dispose off without ethical squalor.
My soul dwells in a gentrified Mall of Commerce with no exist to escape from.
I am like a lifestyle that has managed to deplete the Earths resources in just a couple of generations, in a historical extreme short period of time and I am gambling that will outlive the looming disaster I was instrumental in creating. I am equally interconnected with the good and the bad and the ugly
