Art Gropes. It stalks like a hunter lost in the woods, listening to itself and to everything around it, unsure of itself, waiting to pounce.
Find a pile of gold and sit on it.
Poor Grendel's had an accident. So may you all.
Art, of course, is a way of thinking, a way of mining reality.
There is no limit to desire but desire's needs.
Talking, talking. Spinning a web of words, pale walls of dreams, between myself and all I see.