The Family Man

First and foremost, I am an artist. Everything else is but provision. Yes, I murder. No, that is not my objective. While I may kill, it is life that I seek to create. My art is not death, but killing is the only way to achieve the desired effect. This distinction may be lost on you. It should be. The Deadworld would have it no other way. However, should I succeed at my undertaking, you will not need to dwell upon this bit of confusion, for all will be apparent (apparent as a dream broken loose from sleep, victorious in its war against waking).

Of course, you’ve chosen to fixate upon that portion of my résumé that deals only with murder. I assure you, it’s merely a small and parenthetical consequence of my art, nothing more. It’s my art that should concern you. However, I must admit, my art is no more than the ramblings of paint, clay, and graphite that you would encounter in any place where art resides (certainly, there are those of you who might fervently disagree with that comparison, and for reasons that amount to a total lack of vision). My efforts differ only because I know the truth behind my work: art is merely the corpse of a dream.