The viewer is confronted with a churning cycle, perhaps a 3D cube spinning in an endless dark void transcribed with the body of the artist, a digital casket. The void rests in a complex position of being both a sacred plane and a shallow space composed of a few lines of code. The 3D scene is "of interaction (video games)," but here is completely immutable.

What started as a ROM hack tutorial turns into a cautionary tale of predatory nature and stupid male sexuality. A difficult work I don't feel comfortable with.

Artist Statement: A Game Boy RPG based on a lost William Faulkner novel, The Day of the Highlander--what ecstasy to penetrate this black box, set my eyes upon these anachronistic indexed pixel screenshots--How could I let slip the inexplicable beauty of this dream-game through my trembling fingers?! Why make videos? Are my texts not enough proof? Will you believe me if I stay in bed, without affectation, in my underwear? Is my vulnerability tantalizing you forward? What have I exposed? An exercise in narcissism?

I'm not sure there are any video game scholars, so I'm doing this from scratch. I tried the best I could. I didn't have time to rerecord any videos so I apologize if my hair is uncombed or my room is messy. I know you think I'm a fraudulent boy, and I am filled with guilt, but perhaps I can earn some redemption.

The scrolls recall the static game levels in Nintendo Power and Prima strategy guides, images and maps of fictional mazes. The miniature quality of them is engaging, the churning waters, lava, and blood pools hypnotic. They're itching to be explored, recalling ocean travel in tiny ships. They possess a kinetic, meditative aura. Still, the scrolls, initially an exercise in excess, fueled by tales of bloody buttholes, are only even slightly successful because they are humble, silent, and waiting, a reduction of big ideas into something quiet. They ask so little of their audience that they might be construed as laziness.