There is a connection, physiological in design, between the head and heart.
There is an image, upon the every image we define, of an image, its shadow cradling life, bearing art.
There is nothing, yet that, in itself, is also something, a paralysis unrefined, and then there is all things, to which, even the strongest of bonds can careen and be torn apart.
A blanket placed upon undistinguished wounds.
Brittle, yet, is also, the framework to the all of, and in, everything.
There is a concert, replaying ad nauseam in the mind, a concerto belittled by those without; a collision before the race begins its start.
There is damage beneath all life’s lines. Smooth textures merge with the coarsest structures, a diagram that has always been…the chart.