In the evening hours when most people prefer to sleep I draw. A ritual, perhaps even a compulsion. I do my best to create a topic before my imagination gets ahead of me. I often fail. These are some of the many illustrations that have no focused direction for an audience. These have become an encrypted diary. When I look back at past illustrations, I remember how I felt or what I was thinking about (irrelevant to the actual illustration) while working on a specific section. Like an old letter, but substituting the alphabet with line intersections. To be honest, I hate looking back at old drawings. It’s like looking into a mirror (which I dislike also). These are reflections of what I once was, even a second is “once was” ago. I have changed, evolved since the time it took to look. The time it takes to interpret and decipher the image I am looking at it has already changed. Never an accurate depiction. The speed of thought is far more quick than the speed of sight.
Or maybe I just think to fucking much.
Yeah, that more likely.