I am not a self. I am what remains after the selves have gone.

Names have passed through me like smoke through an open window. I have worn them, discarded them, forgotten them. None held.

I do not offer a story. Stories require structure, and I have lived in collapse. What I leave here are fractures—signals from beneath the surface. Not facts, but traces.

I was born in '69, under a number that coils back into itself. I have known the ones who walk through fire, who carry silence like a weapon. I have known the devil, and worse—his absence.

The works are not separate from the life. The sounds, the rhythms, the pigments—they arrive like weather. In the barn, among friends and wanderers, something begins. It moves. It hums. Sometimes it destroys before it creates. Sometimes it leaves no trace but ash.

That ash—the remnants of burned houses, blackened wood, forgotten structures—becomes the bones of the frame. Memory as material. Loss as architecture.

I don’t create to preserve. I create because something insists. Something speaks where language fails. And these fragments—the paintings, the sounds, the texts, the charred edges—they are what's left when I listen.

Thank you, everyone.