Surrealistic Soiree
The Confessor of Low-Grade Collective Schizophrenia
Ambient Albums
The Speechless Victim
Vows And Blind Spots That Chain Us From Seeing The Ultimate Truth
Reign Of The Dead Artifacts
All-Consuming Lust For What We Cannot Have Because It Will Destroy Us
Breaking Free From An Illicit Love Triangle (Adult Noir Fairytale)
Footloose And Fancy-Free: The Free Jazz Piano Recitals Series Vol.5
Earthly Religiosity Is Musically Lifeless
Edging On A Long Expired Fantasy Of Disintegration
Embody The Enmeshed Ugly Truth Of Symbolic Symbiotic Interactions
Spontaneous Sycophancy
Entitled To Carry My Own Weight
In The Laboratories Of The Advanced
Free Fall From A Well-Guarded Ivory Tower Into The Indistinguishable Hands Of Your Solicitors
Wings Of An Angel Israel
My own identity feels like a construct, a collection of roles and personas worn like so many masks. Who am I,
really?
Perhaps in the end, we are all just characters in someone else's novel, puppets dancing on strings we cannot see.
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