They seem to fathom themselves from fictitious fiction, seem to cradle their own sense of inner intelligence. Until all arms and eyes and vilified minds are simultaneously electrified. It is not in the wiring of word, nor the writing/PAINTING/ wasteAWAY utensils… or EVEN, in-fact, The artist AT ALL anymore.
What is it then?! But for… a glorious amalgamation of headstrong concentrations and commitment to a passionate pause-for-thought cause of a lifetime. The strife that some people seem to feel is their own singular sense of unacceptable reasoning
They’ve been burnt and can not afford to feel.. everything, so the artist takes the helm and ceaselessly BREATHES AGAIN
