My art is what’s left in the dust: scripture and shadow, ache and awe, fragments of the holy caught in the wind.

Fresh from the grave, I crossed the Badlands — the country beneath the ribs, where thirst hits bone and the sky offers no shade. I walked there with a broken heart and found God walking with me.

Lamentations of a Stupid Human was the sound I made in that wilderness — a chorus of prayers, curses, and crooked laughter. Every page echoes the abyss; every illustration is a shadow I could not shake.

Under the Sun sees it all. It measures the short days left to the living. I have seen how quickly they pass, and how the blurred line between good and evil runs straight through the human chest. I have learned that the choice is always before us: dust alone, or dust redeemed.

These are not paintings and poems.

They are my testimony. A theology of ruin for the damned.

And I give it here, from beyond the grave.