​I have an ongoing argument with myself.

 

One side of me says: you are a collection of signals, a profile waiting to be read. So, choose a side, make it aesthetic, and be loved for it.

 

The other side of me says: Burn the profile. 

 

I don’t mind the first voice. But the second is, maybe, just the first one in a mask, performing rebellion. 

 

Reality is a script, yes. But we’re not outside it, rewriting from some clean room. We’re entangled. My work is not strategic deployment. It's an attempt to short-circuit my own conditioning. 

 

The DRIFT is the point where the rigorous model bleeds into the psychic fugue. Where a speculative forecast for a collapsing state dissolves into a character’s midnight whisper.

 

I am not building theories. I am finding the latent fictions—the ghost narratives, the repressed desire. 

 

Language is a volatile compound. The precise surgical term from philosophy or finance can be catalyzed by degraded bodily slang. Membranes dissolve. The profane becomes sacred. Theory reads like a confession. A crime scene reads like a liturgy. 

 

And the films ... they operate on a tilt. Gravity is off. Characters move with the momentum of a different plot---one they’ve wandered in from or are trying to escape. The narrative isn’t driven by goals, but by this persistent vector.

 

This DRIFT.

 

A flicker inserted into the world. The feeling of following someone who is already lost, and finding in their disorientation a truer map of the terrain.

 

An interference pattern meant to remind you that you are inside a dream. ​

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  -- Lemoine Drake is a writer/filmmaker.