“Ever since happiness heard your name, it has been running through the streets trying to find you.” ~ Hafiz of Persia
Praise mother art. And the fire in your heart. And the ditches filled with degraded drummings of old ages, eons, and ancestors. Give rise to what raised you. Give praise to what holds you in your tiny beating wings, giving you just enough gravity to plug your feet into the electricity that pumps through the earth and lights up the dragon in your spine. This is the youth and the truth.
I am tree foam memory. Cloud hacked reverie. Slide boat memory. I am a little whisper of the wind.
Images are sounds and words are colors and splendid forms of love are all we have. And art is the substance, the sustenance, the sustainer of breath and beauty. The meaning maker machine and the bone breaker beautifier. Consume me.
Guard your creative fire, it is the only soul you have.
Shatter and starve until you can see.
the fire keeps hunting me and i keep falling asleep in the stardust.