Purveyors of Fine Art
The written words, man….
You were once the unsuspecting doorway to my better life, an unobstructed threshold across which barriers of social and economic consideration became somehow less meaningful, allowing me a whispered moment to be better than I was, alone. And I wanted so desperately to live out my whole life in that one moment, buffered and insulated …
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I am the last thing that the infected City of Wayne needs on this dreary quagmire of another gloomy quarantined night, supposedly in the last week of isolation– but that is probably just another lie. I am the last thing that this town, or any of its people, needs. Or even wants. Because hey, who …
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It is a struggle to find inspiration in a world without touch. It is even more difficult to face the isolation of a life without love. It makes the echoing emptiness just that much more claustrophobic, the passing hours that much more hollow and depressing. The abandonment presses in hard and it festers here, polluting …
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Somewhere along the line we became lazy, our real world transforming into a living, breathing caricature of how the rest of the world once saw us, just a short time ago. We became fat. We became complacent. We did not really work, or struggle, like the all the other great bootstrapy generations before us because …
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It is the worst of times before the best of times, only I don’t think that the best times are even possible anymore. I watch daily through my quarantined window as outside my city burns and goes dark. Everywhere people are running scared, stockpiling greed to feed their fears. The lines of society get more …
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