excerpt from Journal Account of the Apocalypse

Sometimes I find the surging notions of destructive beauty overcome me, notions I can only express in bittersweet pangs of art, music. Somewhere inside the psychotic shell, I wonder if the tormented artist can find meaning then perhaps humanity can be redeemed. So, in desperation I take refuge in ugly(?) images like the rosebuds on a crown of thorns, bleeding in the womb, a god who in the darkness of omnipotence thrusts upon us terrestrial tribulation. I hope that somehow I can convey the beauty of these notions. And then, there's the one I'm in love with the most, every time: Armageddon. It is the Ultimate Battle, because even in triumph, the world ends, we end, you end. The storms of blustering wind, the raging hearts of love and chagrin, and empty seeds of mustard that once held faith… dissipate. Every mortal fights in vain. Just the difference is some wildly embrace the joy of infamous kingdom come, unbearable amounts of terror rife in their hearts; but a sense of resigned glee of being at the mercy of the cosmos ensnares their free will yet. And some go on resisting, calling the blinding light darkness, and ultimately I don’t know which is which.