I don't think I would be exaggerating if I said that my story was completely comprised of loss; of death and of running away; of losing.
There's little losses-- everyday losses. Losing a bet, not catching the train, losing your keys. Little things that remind you that you're born to be a loser. Then there's bigger things. Losing a parent, losing two, losing a sister.
Losing a friend.
But we take things on a timeline that keeps on going-- people say that time heals all wounds, but in a place this sick with false hopes and gun dreams, that's a whole big fuckin' load of bullshit.
There's very, very few things in this world that anyone can say they've mastered. But I think I'm writing this letter in this sketchbook because I've mastered something that everyone's got a diploma in. I'm gonna tie it up, put my demons away.
All these drawings.
All these images.
All this shit.
It started when I was five in Shanghai-- My mom died giving birth to my sister, Kai-huo. I don