I am not given to the task of writing. I have read too much—and always of the most horrific of deeds—to find in the written word much solace from, or reason for, the ultimate madness of the world. Rather, my life has been a quest for things, and their magical and bountiful properties; qualities that, if one is attentive enough, reveal themselves through years of subtle relationships and quiet correspondences. In short, objects are, to me, the truth of this existence, and its only proper means of record—or indeed, value. For within a cherished antique or long discarded toy, one finds a pulse of love and loathing, of betrayal and trust. It seems they speak always—in their wooden, stony, eternal ways—of a kind of fellowship of mankind, and of its brutality—of truth, of life! Whereas literature, pale deceitful shadow,is a dead world, populated by the unborn, its cities built by the distorted bricks of aberrant imagination and mortared by the indolence of poetry. It is an onanist’s daydream—what can be, will be—for me—before my very eyes! Pah, keep your little fantasies, they feed only the minds of the depraved, or heap more dust upon the shelves of the academics! Herein you will find some seeds, of Agrostemma Coronaria, Calla Æthiopica, Lilium Pomponium, and Campanula Carpatica. They may flourish. You will find some people; Hieronymus L., Stefan H., Agnieszka T., and Dr Anvar Z. They may wither. You will find some things; a peepshow box, a Russian doll, a suitcase, a speculum. They can never die!