An artist can’t be a slave to what is not made yet.

We remain acquiescent to the box within the box.

In that, we tell ourselves, we are not aware of it.

Most things are abated.

But stepping between the echo of times,

we can glimpse the delight of enchantment.

Only in that moment do we hover like a hummingbird,

sipping the nectar of our own creative mind.

Vermiculite of Existence