My exhibition is nearing, and I am working as I have never have before. Pulling my hair from root, falling asleep in corners of the furniture, disappearing without reappearing. Though it is overwhelming, intense, and ambitious, I have not a second of resignation for what I do. I haven't slept in days nor have I seen sunlight outside of my studio, but the sort of sacrifice in this discipline isn't as painstaking when I think of what it is for. I understand the end product so well that every step that leads me to the final destination for this work is as necessary as the idea itself.
My relationship with time continues to be dreadful, as I shudder at the thought of everything happening too soon.I am somewhat still alive, though feeling half dead. Satisfied even if I am deprived.
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