Gusts of high wind wake me. I start to write. I ponder on my silence in this storm of night.
The chatter of my thoughts. Specks of sound, stashed deep within my mind, unheard by all, unfound.
I try my best, and yet. I pour my most but fail to move the slightest moment of your day.
And so I loose myself to rush of air, the unseen race of cloud in dark my sky,
The howl of more than hope, fill my world this storm of night.
The time of contentment and attention is short. The search for the next, inexorable. The unsatisfied craving for stimulus is the crash of wave against my modest shore.
No sooner than I make, I start the next. The appetite for content is voracious. When originating it is tempting to be concerned with the volume of what I do, with the never ending flow.
Making, if a job required by others, becomes a chore. Some make for a living, others live to make.
I make art, music, and publish ideas in the digital realm, a precarious medium akin to the aural tradition.
Take these words that emerge from my mind, transfered by touch to a keyboard, changed at the speed of light, stored, then reproduced for you. These words as data only become so when read. I understand through a process of internal and external encoding, decoding, and at times, encryption and decryption.
As story told or song sung, my work in digital form is as the brief moment of my breath.