When you believe the work before you is the single piece that will forever define you, it’s difficult to let it go. The urge for perfection is overwhelming. It’s too much. We are frozen, and sometimes end up convincing ourselves that discarding the entire work is the only way to move forward. The only art the world gets to enjoy is from creators

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This is a practicing self-memoir, recorded as an inconsistent logbook. This is my junkyard of will to live. Its ability to contain raw honesty and portray life's imperfections keeps me going. It makes me feel liberated and autonomous over my current meager life. It's a sanctuary for my literary authenticity.