Seated on my bedside, with my knees folded close and considering all the time, the casual dilemma of creating. Of placing my interior self into the exterior world and examining its receipt. Daily I am made aware that my perspective is far too relative and esoteric, and much too personal really, to ever neatly articulate the handsome & diagnostic philosophies that seethe inside of me like a thick foam. The problem lies in the sheer otherness of it all. Of having to mean something to somebody, to anybody at all. The least I can do is imagine that I am collected and serene instead of hollow, afraid or self-pitying. I can enclose my visage beneath a sheer cloth of lofty candor and live life in between the steps of my heels and the tips of my toes.
and there is nothing miraculous about that.