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What compels us to label and define the infinite indefinability of our own vastness? I am an artist. I am a poet. I am a healer. I am a professional. I am a woman. I am a child. I am crazy no I am sane. I am strong, no really please believe me. I've made a sticker to put on my car, my chest, my face. It must be true, it's right there for you to read in bold print. But I don't believe everything I read. It's an annoying habit I picked up when I found my brain on the side of the road looking for a ride to the innermost truth of existence. They tell you how to be pretty, how to be happy, how to be successful. They'll sell you any label you think will shortcut you there. I am this and you are not so I am better. But they can't tell you how it feels when you know you've got it right, or wrong for that matter. And what does it really matter? It's just ink smudges on paper slapped across your mouth to shut you up for fear truth might spill out. And truth scares the fuck out of all of us doesn't it? The truth that there is no right way, there is no there to get to. There are only wounds and scars from failing and breaking open again to let the light disperse the shadows that haunt us in the dark of the night. Me, I'm not this thing or that thing. I'm just an animated bag of flesh and bone marveling at the stars and the magic of that mouth that spills the truth.