I will never be a great critic. I do not want to dissect poetry and art. I do not want to expose them to the harsh sunlight. To learn all the names of all the little parts that make it all work.
I want art to retain its mystery. I want to be able to go back again and again. To keep falling into its depths over and over like a cherished fetish dream. It is a pleasing nightmare I seek. Unease and uncertainty, poeticized.
To take the unknowable dark, to take our fear of it. And make it my muse. That is the central calling of my life.
Whether it is the bleak and beautiful poetry of Ligotti or Lovecraft, or the surreal deliriums of Lynch or Argento.
Whether it is the falling sun setting the sky a blood red over a lonely and shadow veiled cemetery, or the cold and desolate moon reflected off a black and abysmal lake.
It is all the same voice. It is that voice I have followed for my entire life. It is that voice that will keep whispering long after I am dust. Long after the stars dim. Long after the universe goes cold and silent. The voice of the dark will still whisper. Do you hear it? I am not a great critic. I am just here to tell you of the whispers I hear.