Half empty mugs of tea and bottles of cider litter my apartment, intermingling and sharing the fates of sketchy portraits and the unpolished prose that hide in the corners of my neglected journals. They serve as ebenezers of the frazzled and creatively-frustrated beast that roams this home. And, much like Dr. Frankenstein, the disdain I have for the abandonment of my own shrugged creations are the ghosts haunting me in this small space.
Trails of death and decay in the pursuit of creating life, producing art.
I will wear these fragmentary paper scars proudly. Let me strut in this cage.