There was a painter in my first studio space that I remember
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She used to attach her own hair onto her paintings
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They were stacked in the hallway
Depicting faces, desperate but hopeful
A row of death masks
Fusing life and death together
I mean, life and art, or is it death
Or maybe it's just me?
At times, I have been obsessed with
Connecting to materials and textures
And I dreamt of having a face made of marble
A face made of marble, a face made of marble
How do you kiss, how do you kiss
A piece of marble or a piece of gold?

I've always tried, I've always tried to prove that I'm the living
Connecting dead parts, dead parts, dead parts
Once I tried acting
I was the virgin in the cast, like I wasn't quite human
Performing alabaster, an empty canvas
The shape around the others
In a silent pageant away from emotion
Now I rearrange objects that my friend made for my show
I'm not sure if these are art or just stuff she made for me
But I rearrange them on the countertop like I'm examining a stage plot
Working on my performance
Examining the borders, the borders
Living my text
Two dead parts (two dead parts)
Two still-lives (two still-lives)