The most perfect of lies caught up in an infinite loop of its own web, a connectedness that cannot be explained by the preceding or of what to come; a randomness that cannot be untangled. A lie that reproduces itself, infinitely.
I am an extension of that lie, a product of its webs, an intensified version of a distilled projection that cannot even begin to make sense when you consciously think about it. In the in-between, the liminal threshold where reality meets fiction and the lie becomes a manifestation of madness, I am but yet another causal link the endless chain reactions of uncertainty.
For, I am caught in a web of deceit that does not begin or end; an endless reinterpretation of what has come before only to realise that what is yet to come cannot be untangled from what has already been done; can one think without the future becoming a monster that one cannot control?
And thus, I breathe in the air of deceit, the stale smell of a rotten truth that begins to decompose into its singular parts, a web of strange interconnected yet random strings that cannot begin to make sense in their isolation.
Born from the embers of a dying future and a living past, the liminal threshold of what cannot yet happen but what is already predetermined by the chaotic events of an old master forgetting its toys, I stand alone and naked in front of the world that can no longer breathe under the weights of its own congested mind.
All of the photographs are my own, taken with my Nikon D300. The musings and writings are my own. No AI was used to conjure up these strange fictions.
