Look, I’m a sentimental sap. I’m never not thinking about time, and not in the daily sense of the word, but in the vast hard to wrap our head around reality that it’s always there layering on top of itself throughout our vast and personal history. That I am a cliff face made up of sediment from every moment I’ve ever lived, and that time is an artist just as I am, for it’s the only other thing that can hold all of us and turn it into a story.

8×10 inches. 
Original handwritten poem,
India ink on archival paper. 
Artist signature on the back.
Ships unframed, and prefers to be framed with a mat. :)