What the fuck are we doing on this floating piece of rock 150 million km from a burning star anyway? And if the probability of existence is so infinitely improbable. Is this sickness, this inability to feel joy, just a comic joke? Shouldn’t I be drinking in every moment of precious life? Scoffing it in? Filling every moment with sensation? Crushing a fresh tart raspberry between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Listening to music too loud. Risking eye damage looking into pink sunsets. Absorbing sunshine with my skin. Why can I appreciate the beauty of the world while feeling detached from time and place? Like I have vaseline rubbed in my eyes and anxiety that feels like it’s causing my bones to burn. Being human is absurdity. To cope with the perpetual disappointment, I take photographs and call it art. These intimate, beautiful photographs of gross, decaying fruit are me and my way of finding acceptance with the human condition.