At the heart of any terror is the fear of losing what we find meaningful.

Stories heard but not recalled. Letters too. Words filling my head. Fragmenting like artillery shells. Shrapnel, like syllables, flying everywhere. Terrible syllables. Sharp cracked. Traveling at murderous speed. Tearing through it all in a very, very bad inreparable way.

This great blue world of ours is but a house of leaves, moments before the wind.

Here then - the after math of meaning. A liftime finished between the space of two frames.

House of Leaves is certainly about the unsettling nature of fear - and it was my aim to address that - but its also about recovering from fear.

I could see her get all nervous but she was also excited. Nightmares have that quality, don't they?

The finest act of seeing is necessarily always the act of not seeing something else.