There's only this one illusion, and the one illusion is that I exist in time, in space, in place. "I'm here now, I was here yesterday and I will be somewhere else tomorrow". I am is the illusion of continuity. It's not how life is, it just isn't.

Life is not experienced in time. Stories are told about time and they appear or not. When we talk about peace and rest and love and beauty, there is always this sense of timelessness.

It is clichéd to say that "the map is not the territory" but such a cliché is highly appropriate for this book.
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In writing this or any other book that attempts to point to the love that is everything and nothing, the words are always wholly inadequate. Yet there is love and pleasure in the attempt, no matter how futile.
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These poems were written over the course of a year or so and are illustrated by many of my own photographs. It's funny how personal and impersonal are really not two in this empty love.

Life is always as it is, this is it. All the past is here, all the future is here. For the seemingly separate individual, the search for freedom is the search to find something other than this. In his debut book, Tim points towards the unknowable everything and nothing. All there is, is this. This deafening silence.