There is a lone solider on a cross and I'm slowly sliding down my own crucifixion. Torn and sheared by razor nails - is this how it all will end. I'm heading to New York. To mecca. Will I be able to rekindle that artists fire which was snubbed out all too early. I am an accomplice in my own murder, that, I will be the first to admit. Perhaps it is entirely my fault, perhaps Sartre is right and I didn't fight hard enough against the so so so bad faith. Will the best I muster be coffee shop creations/ will I be left to merely analyse academically what can only be found in the artist's stroke?
Idiot wind, carry me.