“Slow-Fast” just means the speed at which we experience life, images and impressions flying by, sometimes slowing enough for us to catch a tiny corner of understanding. Or so we think. Really, we don’t understand anything at all.

You won’t find my photo anywhere on any tumblelog. That’s because I don’t want to frighten you. You see, I’m not like you. Not at all. I’m an alien, invisible, untouchable outcast. I represent all that is repugnant in society. One of my favorite writers is Beckett who understood. Another is Bukowski, who also did. Because they understood, I read them and take comfort.

In spite (or because) of my outcast status in social circles, I am in a position to cast a gimlet eye upon it all. The most difficult of all is to keep my observations to myself, for who wants to listen anyway? It’s impossible to accept truth without the necessity to change.

I was adopted at birth. This doesn’t seem to be a problem for most people who were adopted at birth, but it has been the single most defining moment of my life. It has made me not know who I am, what I feel, or how to live. I spin off-kilter like a planet knocked out of orbit, headed into the infinite darkness and cold. I’ve tried to capture this feeling in my fiction, but so far, no luck.