The artist’s mind, a bed of roses, and thorns. And mud. A lot of mud. This incessant craving for innovation, learning. Always looking for that something new, so perplexing, right in front of me, yet I seek hither and thither. With each creation, a sense of conclusion, so fleeting, the tediousness of ground zero all over again. And yet I lumber, sometimes fly, sometimes shuffle, sometimes run. To draw that thread, the connection, so visceral, so abstruse. My mind and body always restless, always discontent, but for those moments. What is it I yearn for?
it's not necessary 