Reflection, upon death.
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Darkness, breaches the edges of vision. Waking, leaving the body. Morning comes, no arising. Sun is gone, no horizon. Time spent, gone None to come Now, become totally numb. The ones you’ve left, We’re filled with dread. Never imagined, you’d be dead. Taken life with your own hand, Left here, trying to understand. Suns gone down, moon’s come up, Guess I’ll down another cup.

Bitjamin, 2020

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Some consider art to be trash, unfit for viewing. Some see piles of trash, and view them as art. This collection is an attempt to blur these lines.

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