Goodmorning, Glory


We go hand in hand, we speak to the brutality of confusion, the anatomical bond between our own energetic spirits. I am in awe of what, these hands will create and what these eyes have seen. I am now, measured by time and accolades while the children lie, patiently waiting for blessings foreignly curated by chance, in the view of others. As I speak on things a elements of new, I completely understand, that we are the prominent scenes of neglect, fashionable neglect of what you have created, but I always hear, I always listen. I am mad, insane, just enough to function on the edge of civility. Just enough to love others to disgrace, heinous pain and scars, beyond the once fragile words of our bond. If, in these times, legends are disposed of, and spirits cemented I can play yet again beautifully. I can be convicted of trapping my work in the category, to produce a universally understandable currency, but what good is so, such is the operational visual architect. Ah, these ramblings. They move time, my time. We all want security.