Reading is my refuge. It’s my way of putting the world on pause, and making sense of the models that it operates on.

Over the years, the highest apostle of reading — The Book, has slipped from its pedestal in my mind. Its place has been…

There is a man whose art I hate, because I do not understand it. His prolific output also greatly worries me. It seems pointless, and I choose to disregard the meaning that he seeks from his body of work.

I wish he would stop doing what he does. But I always exhort people to make art, no…

I love the cracks.