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Sometimes, late at night in the hotel room, after the lights have gone out and the mistakes have already been made, when it is heavy and silent and still, I lie awake and listen to my pulse on the pillow…

Imagine you are on a tour bus, the miles whistling away beneath you as you sleep. Tomorrow you will wake up in downtown Somewhere. It doesn’t matter. All the skylines look the same. Time is only marked by events. The world is on a first-name basis with you.

But you…you barely even know yourself. There are those who give in completely to the idea of what it means to be famous. And those who can’t ever seem to leave the past behind. Life is a deep and contemplative story stuck on repeat—love, loss, self-destruction, self-discovery.

If you could go back to the way things were before you made it…would everything still be gray?

When I was younger I had a reoccurring nightmare about a far off place full of dark things. I remembered forcing my eyes open to escape it. As the years passed, the images began to fade and I had the dream less and less. It’s like part of your imagination being overactive and never sleeping. As I’ve grown older I’ve found myself thinking of it more fondly, trying to remember how these scenes played in my mind and inventing new ones.

Using some of the best underground artists I have ever met (whose work continually takes my breath away), I hope to explain myself. Here they take the form of criminal sketch artists, and have made what amounts to drawings of suspects. This is how they looked to the best of my memory. I am just a cartographer. At best this is a map that will get you back to this world, and at worst this is me spilling the best secret I ever had.

This dream used to make me afraid to sleep. I remember begging my Mom for half hour increments to put off the inevitable, the unavoidable. I used to think of every happy thought in my head before I went to sleep in a desperate effort to escape it. And then one day it just went away.

This is me at my most honest. My most naked. I think somewhere in everyone is The Boy. No one wants to be what they are. This is cliche and trite, but it is mine. Don’t sleep.