What are those people who can look through art, like it wasn't there or never existed?
And how dare they state there is nothing new or beautiful in the world... But then perhaps they see their own art and have no time for that which is declared.
The smell of barley sets in a state and we buy in to the history which makes this our own.
But the sweat of broken men can set a lost individual on another downward spiral.
Leave this on the floor and watch in excitement as the star picks itself up and glides on ice to succeed.
Ah man, the rush
The uncontrollable outbursts
The joy of the win and the union of the celebration.
I've never had this and savour each moment. I love being a stranger. I love exploring alone.
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