the pictures in my room

It always starts the same way (with full awareness of the extreme nature of the word “always”): the pungent pang of desire. Desire for what?

To make something, to change something, to improve something, to deconstruct something. But always, always, the desire stops its information there-- it doesn’t tell you what it is. The desire does not even know what it is. The desire does not know what it desires. It only knows that it wants. It is up to you to pick up the desire and run, as bravely as you can, in whatever way your nose leads you. Because the desire is mute and burning your hands.