Caught somewhere between the profane and the prosaic the author assures us all that he, like most, is trapped in a prison of his own making, with gilded neon bars and the machinery of Moloch haunting his nightly landscape of dreams. Increasingly aware of the sharp divide between what I see and feel, and what I do. Trapped in a corrosive System which is ultimately 'Against Nature' and therefore against 'Us'... I see no further benefit in talking about myself and prefer to let my work speak for me.