I pause from painting a canvass of opinion, brush strokes colouring a solid red
across the blank faces that warily observe. A compass points to the right (a dead
end) yet with no direction, escorting a stained brain in reverse: an unnatural place to start.
This taste is always freshest in the mouths of the hungry, which are forced to part
from an honest working voice to focus solely on the next meal. Who will stand
up to write THIS IS WRONG on Parliamentary walls to clear blinkered eyes? A hand
can paint and sculpture, but will also make a fist.
A better world is open if we walk on through the mist.