I have rested in peace once already. I have felt the weight of earth close over my head, and I have returned to the land of the living — not to haunt, but to lament.

I am unearthing a theology of ruin for the damned, for those still dragging themselves through the dust — still praying, still doubting, still hoping. My work holds absurdity and sacredness, longing and holiness, all at once. I live in the pull between grief and humor, meaninglessness and revelation — deliberately unresolved.

These are psalms for the spiritually concussed, visual liturgies for the overlooked. Messages scrawled in the sand where God and the broken meet. Darkness is named but not crowned; death is present but not final; suffering is worship.

From a howl in the wilderness, I give these visions while breath remains in me.

Because the dust remembers — and I remember with it.