'I am a simple man I am a forgotten man. My mind is not wasted as I make flags and I wait for a time when I can leave with my flags to find a country that will take them. 

To produce such things from such a small place as this, I feel is as honourable as any profession any man has made for himself. This place is dank with close walls; only my mind can travel me outside to where my honourable profession would be of any merit. I am a flag maker for a people who do not need flags. I can create a nation with a flurry of needlework, and a composition of ideals. 'Why?' you ask, 'when all nations have flags do you continue in such a way that would make all current nations unrecognisable, why change their flags?' let me tell you this; I see no nation here. Here in the underground where I make these objects nothing is recognisable to those who dwell above. No nation can call this place its own, yet I can tell little other difference between down here and up there.   

Here, at this juncture, is a nation which belongs to the ants, here is a nation of rainless dust and stolen light. Here is an immoral place, ugly and rotten. I can little imagine a life where days exist without the imagination of what they must look like, where light is natural. My thoughts are of grass, whilst claustrophobia rules in my veins, this place is heartless. This is a place where rain comes from heaven and would only blot the page in my thoughts. Smoke lingers for days, and in turn, will turn the pages I write mustard yellow and relieving my lungs from natural breath.'

Matt Clark