Lost in the neon haze of Los Angeles, he paints from the depths of addiction—the fevered nights, the aching dawns, the endless cycle of chasing and running. His work is a confession, a hallucination, a love letter to the chaos he wasn’t able to escape. The city breathed in his colors: The sharp reds of desperation, the deep blues of regret, the sickly yellows of withdrawal. Each piece is a mirror, cracked and distorted, reflecting the version of himself that addiction used to shape and reshape. “The canvas is the only place where I am honest.” Here, the truth bleeds through in thick, reckless strokes. It’s not pretty, but neither is the life he used to live. His art stands both as a monument and a warning—beauty born from destruction, creation forged in the fire of self-destruction. Somewhere in the mess, in the layers of paint and pain, he hopes to find a way out. Until then, he keeps painting what used to be. Today he is sober and this is how they express themselves on canvas during the long aching nights.