"Words are loaded pistols."--Jean-Paul Sartre
Words that swirl and dive. Words that pinch and sting. Words that warm and comfort. Words that ache and throb. Words that scream and startle. Words that gather on the ceiling and cyclone down over the insomniac mind. The forced hand writes. The black vein bleeds onto paper. The canvas drips with thought. There is always the constant static, perhaps from some nebulous space of time where the muses and daimons hide and transmit muted prophecies that no one hears. Another region of the consciousness where the imagination consumes the ego and freedom is the Words. Where is the artist whose hands paint our future, the writer whose words infuse our being, the musician whose notes stand as emotions frozen in space? In the Words, consumed by the Words, trampled by the Words.
