It has to feel right.
Before Joe Peacock interrupted me from committing suicide last December, that sentence, despite my drunken state, screamed repeatedly at me. It is, in truth, why I'm still alive. It screamed louder than my depression, my anger, my hate. Nine months since, I have only just begun to discover how much that statement has haunted my existence. In every step that I have taken throughout my life, those five words have permeated every decision in regard to life and love, death and consequence. Art and story has simply been my feeble, human attempt to explain.