Nothing is fixed
Everything is in constant flux
War and famine
Peace and abundance
The world descends into chaos
Where does the self stand, in what form?

Micro to macro,
Inert matter to living bodies
We name, we mark, we draw our fragile lines
Yet there are things that refuse to be

This subtle gap of unrest, of doubt, of grief—
Art is born
My art is a quiet pandemonium