The day opens and i am befuddled once again by all there is to see and do and feel and on and on compounding this goes on into the night until i sleep and it starts over again.  

There are so many dreams i have of things i will never do which apparently has little bearing on whether or not i will keep crafting these dreams and letting them live as much as i can. And while the vast majority of them will never really find root in the place i call reality, i still end up thinking they deserve a place to call home just as much as anything does. 

So, i decided to build houses for them. These are houses i know i will never visit, gardens i will never ferret around in, and skies i will never gaze, slack-jawed, up into. 

These works are postcards to myself from these worlds. Wish-you-were-here utterances from some strange self that i will never meet but somehow knows me. Small snapshots from somewhere sent through the ether.

I can’t really place where these things are sent from or what it’s really like to be there. But beneath a lamp, from a desk,with a paintbrush, I wave back, happy to receive some strange echoing “hello, hello” across the great unknowable distance from here to there.