This is a book of lines, like black laser light tracings or projections, direct from the being of a person who could not mitigate, who could not dilute, and who could not fabricate or construct what wasn't.
Like the contour lines that register the topography of the land, or the rings of a tree cut down, they have no intent, they just are. And in just being, they plumb an otherwise unfathomable depth.
It feels true to say that when we look at these intense and immaculate images; we see both the very inside of the person who made them, and of ourselves.