for an artist every day is art and every moment becomes the media with which we paint our vision of it. every sight every sound every taste every touch every pain every pleasure, it is all the magic we use to weave words paint pictures sing songs. and what starts as one thing can suddenly or even over time evolve into something quite different. for in the end what we do is a mystery even…
she sits down at her desk and forgets what she was about to do. she stands to leave the room and forgets where she was about to go. she picks up the phone and forgets who she was about to call. she takes out her pen to write and forgets what she was about to say. she loses herself slowly and forgets what she was about to be.
he nudged her, his fallen mate, and I could swear I saw the tear drop fall. huddled near the train tracks, the ducks honked their grave concern. but one, distraught, and limping, flung himself toward every passing car.
