My uncontrollable heart is working itself to an event. Although I was a claustrophobe as I child, I drink and smoke quite frequently. Ive grown a pair since then, and the abundance of time has a kind of drowning effect. I dont think I fear death, but then again these these things are decided when at the point where it lets you see its face smiling at you. They are all different, like kisses and fingerprints. I hope its like the French describe an orgasm; a final, little death. I was looking through a set of images I took in my old house. I was always so impressed by the quality of light in the bathroom, especially at night. I think I took way too many pictures in there trying to find that one thing. To this day, I still look through those, and its like looking through a phonebook. I know now that they ended up being the last images of that house and of that series…and of that particular being that is now in the rear-view. I know now that they were pictures of a human being who had no qualm with carrying lies, and was un-hindered by their weight. I basically photographed lies, beautiful lies. In photography, such as in life, I think that one tries to avoid seeing what you want as apposed to whats really there. This two paths cross each other many a time, like the road under a car at the wheels of some drunken fool, swerving from lane to lane. The fact that in photography the evidence exists and is there to be studied, is the only benefit. In real life exists only the wake, the shadow, the print that does not disappear until the next snow or rain or tide. Now I know that the reason i took so many pictures of this one thing, was because I had a hard time seeing something that was making a big effort in hiding or something that wasnt there. Fooey on me, fooey on me and on 12 years and my children. They say that your heart is roughly the same size as your fist. Interesting isnt it?