I think sometimes I know too many secrets. That they will overrun me one day and crowd out everything else until there is nothing left but the echoing light and thunder of all these secrets leaving me paralyzed with no words —
With secrets, words are forbidden.
I think this is how writers are made. People who are bound by secrets so long one day in place of silence something new is born, something made up, something fiction, anything, everything, just to fill that void of non-sound.
Writers tell the truth through lies.
How messed up is that?
where the art work comes from:
:::the society of historical curiosities:::