Old writings without a home

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On a dark day in December I was lost. On a sunny evening on a bench in a train station in October I saw beauty but I was lost. In the arms of my family at Christmas I was lost.


Art burns. Art ignites with contemplation, silence, reflection and inspiration found in books and people.

Infinity my home

Maybe I am testing something that I am going to invent. Maybe it is a punishment, a prison of ideas. Maybe there is a goal that we are trying to reach.