My brain is like a piece of glass, shattered into a million drops of light reflected on and on. My whimsy is there, buried in books and words and letters, disconnected from – there, my angst, with poets and dreamers, shuffling among the dark recesses giving (of course) stage to the bombast, the negotiator and planner of things, the addict of consumption, high on art and the darkest of matters which is like smoke to fire and fetid air.
Through A Lens, Darkly
