I was going to say "I hope nobody thinks I'm just trying to be clever," but often I am, and I do hope that they do.

Whenever I sit down to write, my words recurse and I have to make a conscious effort not to dwell on wordplay at the expense of intention. As soon as you say something, it is that -- a thing -- that exists in its own right. Even if it's barely said, a whisper's whisper tickling your axons, from then on it exists and you must choose how to deal with it.

Of course this has nothing to do with anything. I just needed to write so the internet would remember me. I don't have any new images because I don't have a job or film or money. Actually, none of that is strictly true. We tell all kinds of lies, don't we? Maybe I just want to think those things so I don't have to make pictures.

In my dream last night someone was dying, or condemned to death, and we wrapped his head in brown paper and tried to fit it in a plastic bag, and so much sorrow welled up in me that I kissed the paper and wished him well, but he was sleeping and beautiful and the paper came loose from his mouth and then his eye and I had set events rolling that could no longer be controlled.

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