There’s a suffocating stench released into our collective void from the eternal suck and fuck of content exchange that seems to fuel us all and that is consumed, digested and shit out without much thought. The absence of reflection in exchange for rabidly and eternally broadcasting every piece of falling dander or bleeding gum is the equivalent to the pointless birth and death of cicadas hordes at the end of summer.

I sat down with Matt last Monday after another day of collapsing vertebrae in a desk chair that was carving me into a decorative wooden spoon to serve digital waste and excess skin with and for the first time in weeks felt something that wasn’t decay.

Etch, his new infinity mint project that I wouldn’t qualify as art so much as an otherworldly weaving of collective consciousness threads into an omnipresent celestial being that lives and breaths with our words and thoughts. Inhaling memories, shared joys and pain, peculiar stories between strangers, shared or dissenting experiences in a particular brush stroke or pixel and exhaling organisms that inherit those cumulative feelings. A living ledger documenting an art piece’s journey through our saucer pupils and into the abyss.

A library book written by everyone and no one with no pretense and no plot, just words and images that meant something to someone at some time. It mimics the roots and branches of an old oak tree, seeking the sky and dirt concurrently, so long as the prospect of growth exists.