I've realized that half of the satisfaction i get from art comes from continuously attempting to lump little bits of everything together, as if behind the curtains of this giant benignity we call life i might discover some semblance of a plan.
I recently came upon Carl Hammoud through 12oz Prophet and i was reminded of a time i spent working for a racist Israeli selling piles of useless shit in a set of warehouses. Each day as the sun would set and the air would turn yellow i would revisit the horde of filth and catch it cast in a heavenly glow. For a few lonely minutes, the pile looked like a scene of heaven.
I also once worked at a library, which was a pleasant time that conjures less colourful metaphors.