it fails us, these imperative wishes to achieve a certain plateau of emotional worth, and we feel at a loss… or at least, I do… love and the betrayal of kneeling before the frequency of sensation, an altar of understanding, and portraying the id in its natural forms… what is mankind and the value thereof?… are we scared to realize the potential sacrament?… giving of ourselves, of our sensate placements underlying the individual integrity, making us who we have become… affecting the smoke and mirrors that encircle us… thoughts turn from the blasphemous to the mundane and back again to pornographic exultation… there are too many days in lonely contemplation, and eternity becomes the twisted prism, reflecting the divine light into deformed Technicolor… the remote control over selfless puppetry trying to live a life born from dreams as we commit to the reality… that graphic hole from which escapes no light… a warping experimentation of sudden heartbeats and stories of nigh responsive co-ordinations… the social trickery grows possessed of steely glares and stigma attached to that anchor pulling all into the swirling darkness of abandon… the pictures draw the eyes that cannot truly see the potent impulse of artistic decline… where does the artist die, and is it over merit or notoriety?… the patient waits with an understanding of unrequited  permanence that permeates the gray skies above… where intrigue waits like a viper to eat the soul of the unaware bodies… leaking out the glory of past remnants… saving face with talking heads of all varieties…

Thanks, khet.