During a very troubling period of my life I was fighting with my best friend from childhood. Walking through a cemetery, as he and I were trying to work out our differences, I ran into a dead bird by the side of the path, with its head ripped off, and this fly perfectly, calmly, perched atop the wound. It was one of the most beautiful, and morbid, things I had ever seen. It looked as if it was about to take flight.
I have a thing about memento mori. I remind myself that death is always around the corner because I am scared of it. There’s that constant fascination with the morbid, the hidden, the profane that keeps drawing me back in.