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"An ancient feathered spirit who lived in a remote desert for a long time, where it was consumed repeatedly by fires a muse would set, only to rise from the ashes of each..remade, renewed, and more evolved" |
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These compositions originate from instinctive impulse, and without over endeavoring to convert such dim light to bright, there are voices, but only one character. There is a journey, but no story. There is truth, but no formal proof. There is art, but unlike workshop garden flowers..more like wild flowers. These soliloquies are for the simple pleasure of reading, to feel the sensation, feelings against gradients of thought..how ever much the reader upon a journey herein, may be prose'd to thought or drawn to feeling, if thought and feeling be the pleasure |
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Revisions: a work in progress |
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