Why do you fear me with my camera in my hand? I am not a terrorist, pervert, deviant or any other label you use to label fear. I am an artist. Why is my camera more threatening to you than a pencil or paint brush? Why is my shutter more dangerous than the words of a poet? Why are my megapixels more dubious than the melodies and harmonies of a musician? Am I an apparition of the reality of your world, threatening to expose the world to your truth at the speed of light with the accuracy of seasoned marksmen? Is this why you lash out at me with your blade while I stand armed with an eye for the truth and a lie-detecting-light-capturer?
Do you look at my lens and imagine me going home to produce hours of steaming-shower-spank-material? Do you, while reading this, want to punish your own primate? Who is the real deviant in this conversation? Rather than waste time using your blanket of false moral high ground to hide your own personal perversions and smear your fecal-stank-fear in the faces of innocence, why don’t you try addressing your own misery first; for he who lives in a crystal palace high upon the self-appointed pedestal should be wary of the stones he tosses around so haplessly.
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