Four weeks ago I picked a side and decided to make myself a bed. In doing so, I've committed myself to a familiar brand of obsessive behaviour;

• Day & night, sleep will have been lost, daylight will pass without notice
• Every motion, every stroke will have been precisely executed
• Each step will have been turned inside out
• I will have driven myself mad with detail
• All of this will have taken place before I've lifted a finger

As compulsive as it seems, this process has informed the vitality of my creative spirit as far back as I can remember. Back to childhood days spent hidden away in my grandfather's garage, feverishly fastening together whatever random objects I could find. The innocence of my youth did little to belay the reality I was creating for myself through that process. The panic I felt compelled to endure. It was quite literally, for me then and now, a fear of complete consumption. Life and death. Everything or nothing.