I don’t perform on a stage; I enter a field.

A field built from memory, resistance, and touch.

My instruments are not for display, but for relation.

They vibrate with the histories I carry, the questions I live.

Sound, for me, is not form but force.

Not harmony, but texture.

Not performance, but presence.

Each piece is a ritual of listening,

a reckoning in resonance,

a gesture toward becoming.

Textural sound is not experimental; it is empirical.

Not a test, but a touch.

It does not ask what if - it asks what is.

Sound arrives not as meaning but as surface: rough, soft, unstable.

It grazes the listener, not to explain, but to remind them that they, too, are made of waves.

I compose not with rules but with residue:

the lingering shimmer of metal,

the broken line of breath,

the friction between material and memory.

This is not sound to be understood.

It is sound to be witnessed.