I can’t find anything on my shelves because they grab, prod and remind. They are constantly reminding me of Leonard Cohen biographies, poetry, PMS charts and a few schoolbooks.
I am reminded how heartbroken I can be and feel loss more acutely. When something means more and more, then discover it is lost; it hurts.
There is a fear in the depth of despair.
From shape to shape, the natural and machined, bend my eye. Nothing escapes the attraction of curve, fluid mass and void.
Even though imaginative color is applied by you, the beat of a hand touching paper goes on.
The artist never stops to admire a “perfect sketch”, because none exists.
Restless minds cave to desire.
Hey, why not ride a motorcycle that looks like it was designed in the 40s. More so, put a ridiculous stereo on it, an American flag to show you are “a real American” and then strip.
Strip all common sense for your safety and the safety of your partner. After all, you ride a Japanese knockoff of some other famous brand. You know the one, the motorcycle that will soon use Europe as a more reasonable method of manufacturing. But you are one with the air and the road.
Fly on little wing, ride on.