Right now, I exist at twenty-three: some ugly place between legally tipsy and "you'll never enjoy another birthday again." Through my tiny life trajectory, I have come to the conclusion that my time here in physicality is finite, and as a whole, we exist in this constant and perpetual state of flux, unraveling into an inevitable, impending doom. I don't aim to be negative (perhaps after doom comes paradise!), however I understand death as unavoidable. For some slice of solace, I grip to artistic mediums that have the capacity to hold small moments in high regard. Through text and imagery, I transform my dissolving memories into relics while simultaneously creating my own inconspicuous truths. These are stories in limbo. They emerge from my past, my present, my future, and from the bottom of my grave.
