Ideas are darkened figures, built upon pigments and ideas. They can whip through gallery doors, the canteen, across mezzanine floors.
Ideas are hotel love affairs, with their take away trays; they’ll check up on you every once in awhile, with a phone call diverted from the Hotel Lobby’s, binary file.
Ideas are those ghosts of girls, pale skinned beauties that’ll pass you in the street, only to unfurl at the feet of some other man as a fireside treat.