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I’m haunted by the vagaries of life and the inexorable oblivion of death. The locus of my existential anxiety lies squarely in the frailties of the body. The more something frightens me, the more I am drawn to explore it, as if by that exploration I might regain a sense of control over life’s entropy. I apply myself to this exploratory task with obsessive ritualistic and scientific rigor, which is reflected by the precision of my hand and my choices and repetition of imagery. I’m trying to pinpoint exactly what transformation takes place in the moment of death. I use delicate mediums that evade my efforts at perfect mastery, echoing my lack of agency in the face of the most inevitable of denouements. What is the exact instant of passage into nonexistence, and what precise transformation, biological or otherwise, occurs? I want to stick my knife into it.

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