I am a pawn.
My ideas have ideas of their own.
They hunt me down like a jubilant haunting. Sit on my brain. And trampoline on it until I give birth to them. Believing life doesn't have to be this way — or any way. They take the prosaic affairs of the everyday and color them different. Twist them anew, replacing what's been projected on us with a way out. A newfangled perception. An unfamiliar feast. Fantastically coating your walls with wonkiness. Once pastels hit my fingers, I smudge, press and powder these impressions imperfect. The visions break out and into a world where they are finally
free to distort it.