Snow misted, or so I remember
I was awake, but only partly
Somewhere beyond dreams
In my space between nightmares
Laying in the dark
And lying that things were still light
Outside, the city sat

Art is, to me, a balance between what you say and what you don’t. What you let a stranger’s imagination fill in.

Sensitive men have a way of making problems for themselves. ​​​​​​