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When the sun strikes the cloud with its rays, mist trembles and hovers in the light. I am walking beside a river; I seek to know the rhythm of humanity’s eternal   conundrum: the mysterious flow of life. I restore myself like a shore rebuilds itself in its waves. When the shore repairs itself, I walk.

 

Every step is where I started. I walk covering time and space, and always stand at my own doorstep. Art offers only a glimmer of what it attempts to represent: the artist’s interior, and the observers’ responses. I wander around in my mind and open its door.

 

Time is a river with no banks. We float in the river of time. The sun strikes the earth with its rays. I feel the time without a clear understanding of it. The artwork I make is like writing prose. The prose I write is about the experience of time. We are floating along the shore; we are dancing beneath clouds; we are crying and fighting in the rain. I want the incessant thoughts that crowd my mind to evaporate, to leave me quiet at twilight.