SO now I've been blogging for only a few months, but I have to admit...
I am curious as to what the hell I am doing here.
Is this an art reference blog?
Is this a hey, I'm a human too, blog?
Is this a way for me to communicate beyond an audience I may personally know?
This blogging thing has got my panties in a bunch. I'm derailing my efforts to be here, and want to really just write.
So I'm asking myself to do nothing to give myself (or anyone reading this) a truly formed answer to what or why I am doing this, because , in reality, the inevitability of change superceeds any of my intentions, and I like life this way. Unknown, tolerant, and yet seeking.

The Night and Death
Tonight,
Old man was like our own darkest aspect shining

He had a narrative, created by the thick density of time,
and more often than not, talked to the air as if it was dirty.

Gathering and holding
Gathering and turning
Until standing still
Until finally swallowing the last light of day,
he begged for a roll of paper, to scroll his life on, his farming years and mortal hands doubtless of his touch right...here.
Harvesting his Oncoming, he concieved anecdotes made from Greek and Italian corpses.
His identity, lost in them,
and
We,
lost
in him.
It was as if we sensed at once, our scary substance of insubsantiability,
swallowed by our own darkest aspects shining.
He, with his scroll
while we tether the time, building night and
holding Death
in place.