Who am I?
Am I light source without a switch?
What are the cracked images reflected in the bathroom mirror …
I was a De Kneig stylized façade, and then like a space
Permutating-Pompidou-centre - I landed amongst the homogenous coloured jungle of an old city.
I was the plastic-edifice on the set of a movie I never wanted to see.
Why do the soulless duple clones cling-to-me?
And the colour supplement contributing pseudo wait on my command.
What is my life?
My portrait is of an-empty-room, a broken-lipstick, a nomad on a journey through time, the-last-call.
I am, an-artist-haunted vis a vis an-artist-haunting.