Even with the mood lighting inside this lethargy induced spiced chai I find these things elusive like good cell phone pictures of concerts or, dare I say, a happy poet.
Despite generations of artistic indulgence I find these things apathetic androgynous, as it were with indiscernible discrepancies drawing daft conclusions from the quick-sought eye.
I too struggle to find the truth behind the lines. I craft as though I know my medium. I create broad sweeping arcs across my own right side brain but see them smudged and distorted, distended, dripping their dynamics through the cracks in my floorboards.
Cinnamon vanilla maple ginger shots at first class from coach and here on my three foot throne I squander the warmth of my ******* latte.