A birthday seems as good a time as any to regress. To devolve. Degenerate.
Mutating, spawning, cannibalising themselves on paper in my studio are these circular forms.
Eggs, cells, civilisations, maps, diseases.
They are nameless. Homeless. Anything but helpless.
There is a comfort in being so small and with so much company.
No space to be lonely.
Tiny lines compacted together.
Ferociously surging inwards. Towards new life. Towards their death.
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