A trail of crumpled, burnt and discarded paper is my wake. Creations lost along the way, or in the recesses of my foggy brain. Planting roots 20 odd years ago, I look around me at cascades of paper on every flat, tacked, taped or weighted surface. I face the time in my life that challenges me to the task of mining this vein. Can I do by writing that which I have only scratched the surface of through other art forms? Am I strong enough to be the conduit?