I'm drawn to the floral pattern, and what it holds up in my memory: hours after everybody is in bed, and I am alone, at rest. All is silence. Sometimes I would play the guitar, and feel very pleased. At other times a music of a different kind played, sometimes furiously, sometimes endlessly. But I always returned home. And every evening, here, on that edge so close to dreaming, I would drive into the night-filled flower, where guilt and shame are slowly, inevitably stripped away.

I have a series that cannot be shown here: Old polaroids, warm, lonely, ancient. They fill the pages of a worn photo album, notes scrawled to myself in the future, telling me: "Be young", telling him: "You are old, now, and who knows?"

I believe this is my best work yet.