I try to retire from making pictures, but every time I do I am struck with sight. When it happens I feel like a psychic tv. Images appear and by cosmic concession I go chasing after yet another fleeting feeling. Pictures are the shyest statement. Words conceal themselves in the parallax. I sit down to read what I have written the day before, but all I can find are the pictures of my own amnesia. The sentences have come and gone without saying goodbye, and in the absence of words I realize I’ve burnt the toast again.