My recordings are like slice of life recordings. Listen to what I hear. My art is all about Abram. Everything he does is interesting, and what better way to appreciate it then by recording and filming as much as possible.

PRISONERS (REC.58)

I record as much as possible. I don't care. Period. My job is to get life in its raw form. I was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the ripe age of 22 years old, but I suffered with its effects since I was 20. 20 was when my journey started, and while I adapted to the changes, I learned things about myself. One of the biggest things I learned was that I was famous! Let's talk about the journey a bit. In about the year 2014, I started selling quarter pounds from a good friend. I was selling out of my parents' house, then out of my ex-girlfriend's house. I was successfully flipping while adding a little money from my job to keep things rolling. I was juggling college and a job in the meantime. I was a functioning drug dealer. The more I hung out with my dealer, the more lavish my life got. Or so I believed. I went from stocking produce to becoming a pharmaceutical technician. I was failing college before I started this journey, so I finally started to push it aside and focused on myself. 

Then my next step was to move out of my parents' house into an apartment. The switch seemed smooth, but this was the true beginning of my episodes. My dad bought me a going-away present, a 2003 Nissan Altima. At work, I was moved to the gas station because I forgot to apply for my official license. I bought a motorcycle. A beautiful 2009 Kawasaki Versys that was green to match my new car. I started to take on fewer hours at work, going from full-time to what they call limited part-time, which was 16 hours a week, just enough to pay for rent. At the same time, I am trying to get an ounce to a pound. I then moved from the gas station to pushing carts. Then, finally, I quit.

I thought to myself that life always worked out for everyone else so it should work out for me. I decided one day to sell my car for $2300 and buy a pound of weed.
To pay my rent, I used my credit cards while I flipped that pound over and over after my dealer said he would help out by fronting it. My life was then a steady stream of partying, smoking, and chilling, making plenty of friends along the way and having a few lucky women in my bed.
That's how things were for ten months. I didn't have a job or a car. I rode around on a motorcycle, going back and forth to New York weekly to visit my best friend.

Month eleven, everything changed. I was evicted from my apartment and moved into my dealer's old apartment. I was selling more than before, and then I woke up one day and wanted some Molly. It was my very first time trying it. I had shrooms before, but I didn't really feel anything. I got into my car after I texted my friend from Staten Island and headed there. He pulled through and got me a stash from the corner of a street. It was 3 capsules. I got back home and took one. 
Turns out it was sassafras or heroin, it's still a mystery to this day. 

I went over to my boy's house and we smoked dabs. Then I woke up two days later and decided to get more Molly and took it with my other friends. That whole ordeal took about a week or less, and I was completely addicted. My teeth were chattering and everything. Then I met God, thought I was in hell, became a drug lord, and died. It was a busy month, basically one of the biggest comedowns ever. Somewhere in the middle there I started hearing voices and I became famous.

And that brings us to the present. 

I started having this obsession with recording everything that happened around me. The noise, the cars, the trains, strangers, and family alike. At first, it was just a paranoid scheme. So I started taking myself seriously. I record as much as possible, even if I might get in trouble for it. I feel broken and this is the only way to fix it. In these recordings, I talk to myself a lot, but now I've been recording conversations that I have with people. Listen in with me as I try to figure out what those voices were telling me. 

“I'm doing the right thing, right? I mean, I'm famous, so this is alright, right?”

Society & Culture

I record as much as possible. I don't care. Period. My job is to get life in its raw form. I was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the ripe age of 22 years old, but I suffered with its effects since I was 20. 20 was when my journey started, and while I adapted to the changes, I learned things about myself. One of the biggest things I learned was that I was famous! Let's talk about the journey a bit. In about the year 2014, I started selling quarter pounds from a good friend. I was selling out of my parents' house, then out of my ex-girlfriend's house. I was successfully flipping while adding a little money from my job to keep things rolling. I was juggling college and a job in the meantime. I was a functioning drug dealer. The more I hung out with my dealer, the more lavish my life got. Or so I believed. I went from stocking produce to becoming a pharmaceutical technician. I was failing college before I started this journey, so I finally started to push it aside and focused on myself. Then my next step was to move out of my parents' house into an apartment. The switch seemed smooth, but this was the true beginning of my episodes. My dad bought me a going-away present, a 2003 Nissan Altima. At work, I was moved to the gas station because I forgot to apply for my official license. I bought a motorcycle. A beautiful 2009 Kawasaki Versys that was green to match my new car. I started to take on fewer hours at work, going from full-time to what they call limited part-time, which was 16 hours a week, just enough to pay for rent. At the same time, I am trying to get an ounce to a pound. I then moved from the gas station to pushing carts. Then, finally, I quit. I thought to myself that life always worked out for everyone else so it should work out for me. I decided one day to sell my car for $2300 and buy a pound of weed. To pay my rent, I used my credit cards while I flipped that pound over and over after my dealer said he would help out by fronting it. My life was then a steady stream of partying, smoking, and chilling, making plenty of friends along the way and having a few lucky women in my bed. That's how things were for ten months. I didn't have a job or a car. I rode around on a motorcycle, going back and forth to New York weekly to visit my best friend. Month eleven, everything changed. I was evicted from my apartment and moved into my dealer's old apartment. I was selling more than before, and then I woke up one day and wanted some Molly. It was my very first time trying it. I had shrooms before, but I didn't really feel anything. I got into my car after I texted my friend from Staten Island and headed there. He pulled through and got me a stash from the corner of a street. It was 3 capsules. I got back home and took one. Turns out it was sassafras or heroin, it's still a mystery to this day. I went over to my boy's house and we smoked dabs. Then I woke up two days later and decided to get more Molly and took it with my other friends. That whole ordeal took about a week or less, and I was completely addicted. My teeth were chattering and everything. Then I met God, thought I was in hell, became a drug lord, and died. It was a busy month, basically one of the biggest comedowns ever. Somewhere in the middle there I started hearing voices and I became famous. And that brings us to the present. I started having this obsession with recording everything that happened around me. The noise, the cars, the trains, strangers, and family alike. At first, it was just a paranoid scheme. So I started taking myself seriously. I record as much as possible, even if I might get in trouble for it. I feel broken and this is the only way to fix it. In these recordings, I talk to myself a lot, but now I've been recording conversations that I have with people. Listen in with me as I try to figure out what those voices were telling me. “I'm doing the right thing, right? I mean, I'm famous, so this is alright, right?”

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PRISONERS (REC.58)

PRISONERS (REC.58)