It's a bibliography that reads more like an existential survival kit than a syllabus; The Myth of Sisyphus, The Outsider, The Fall. Camus is a touchstone, not for philosophy’s sake but for the feeling of pushing uphill, again and again. 

The titles of these works read like field notes from that climb: Dogs Let Off Their Leash, An Arm Full Of Junk For A Sense Of Relief, Tribal Drums And Marching Feet. They move between defiance and collapse, philosophy and flesh. The sensory brutality of the titles grounds that philosophy in the body - sweat, blood, meat, earth.

There’s no hierarchy here. The ancient and the everyday mingle: coloured cloth, rancid meat, the whisper of dead ancestors. Each phrase feels lived-in, a half-remembered lyric or thought from the margins. If there’s a story, it’s one of persistence  the absurd hero finding form in fragments. “Lie in the grass and think it through,” one work advises. “Hear those distant beats,” another insists. Somewhere between those two gestures — reflection and rhythm — the artist searches for space within the confusion of the human condition.