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I'm soaked in inspiration, it's new found virginity sweeps over my eyelids until I cannot see, only then do I fully understand that the sensational opacity of darkness is one to be renewed in each glance into the void, only a complete charcoal view of my surroundings can offer such words into my truly greedy mind, mouth, spirit. As if I'm repulsed by a plain view of what? Originality? No, this is much more raw, compare it to the flesh of a young mans wound, these directions have no destination for the lost soul, only a point blank stare into the past memories floating by, to introduce you to your present, who then delegates his greeting to the future. A daunting, black void, where we splatter the blood we shed, and paint the colors we once knew to be our hope.





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