Kindling

Too awake to dream, yet still too sick with sleep to rouse in me the fire of my mind. Smoldering and finding there's nothing left to burn. I must push on. Give into the rhythm and flow that lies beyond me, and let the letters fall as words in sentence sequence, hoping that the guiding hand behind them has good penmanship. Art is a risk. A journey of exploration in which, if done correctly, destroys what came before. The artist, immolated like a Phoenix at it's end, reduced to ashes and coal; a new medium in which to work.