I am struggling to find a voice for everything. Years as a stunted corporate writer have left me feeling like a vampire chasing vapors of flavor. I am alone but my menus talk to me, encourage me to write, to tell a story, to piece it together. I go the opposite direction, searching for images that capture what I cannot do with reason. I read old letters from Cobalt, and he, in his expanded vaporous neoprene form, provides a structure for something that cannot be contained.

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