I am feared. No one has met me and told about it afterwards. My work is important, but never appreciated by those who are part of it. I am anything but mundane. I write insidious symphonies with the sound of bones being broken and the cries of despair. Gunfire is my constant companion. Wars are my stages.
Small projects can be as sweet. No blood, no screams, only a silent sigh. The aftermath is no longer interesting. I don’t care for the people who view my works. Creating that art is all I am striving for.
Chaos, destruction, blood and guts. Silence, anguish, giving up. So many ways to craft a masterpiece. Everyone unique. You might not like my work, but one day you’ll be part of it. I don’t make exceptions. There is a time for everyone. I am a strange artist and the only one working in this field.