When a thousand thoughts batter their way back in – some of them thankless, others none too much appearing at all interested. Dis-interested. This is Turner’s next sudden turn of soliloquy phase – the complicated edition – and it appears to stand rather wild-eyed for its whole wriggle worth, rather beneficially magnificent yet dreary in one person’s unimpassioned insistence, insistence.
When very wise old men get to let themselves play with painting utensils and tend terrifically toward creating
The gradual collapse – a fluxed state of complete comprehension midst utter uncertain manoeuvrings indeed
Brought back to his tumultuous world in the right time met with the first place improper, and the scripted shape of the atmospherically interpretive surface can catch a first-hand ‘watcher’ entirely off-guard, simply far too gathered heavily together and none too heavenly within their very own worth to ever really get to amount, to aimlessly get to count themselves in
Through the ingenious look in his rampant eyes that gaze rapturously across from his vantage-point shoulder – the observant one and he completely understands that for his own reckless reasoning and the disenfranchised madness to take brevity and shape and shall, can, permit itself to dance
There will come the loving-hood time for him
To break his bulging bones and gather up his broken brushes all over again and, of course, vice versa with the mere meagre relation of the reflection in his face = that look of photographic brilliance only minus the sight of a camera