There is a movement happening, a quiet one. A low-profile, low-resolution revolution. Comprised of writers and dreamers, of guerrilla artists and thought-ninjas. Those with something to say. They communicate through text inscribed on true public spaces, rather than blogs and forums. Choosing fewer words, even without being bound by 140 character limits. Using ink instead of pixels. Sending messages in living, breathing space. Pens scream louder into the void. Even if permanent ink is not aptly named.

The circus itself is my personal ideal entertainment venue.

I couldn't tell the difference between what was real and what I wanted to be real.

Is magic not enough to live for?

The night that seemed endless hours before is now slipping through your fingers, ticking by as it falls into the past and pushes you towards the future.

Sometimes I write what I can't paint, and I paint what I can't write. I use a different part of the brain.

Each of them always gravitating toward the other. Yet still they do not touch.