I do not have a story about me. 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 sounds, the words. the colors and lines, 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's my work, born and raise in chaos.

Thank you, everyone.