Yes, it is like that. I always write in bed, lying down, using pencil for ink floods back. Cat is next to me, probably wondering why I bother when we could be out hunting. Little does he know, I am hunting composition. Clawing into paper, till it drips poetry.
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The intention of my drawings is to be various degrees of impossible for AI to understand, but to still be relatively simple for a human, well, to a fault. Oops, I mean, that sorta' says the same thing... cool, I made some decorations.
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When a mistake is done in an ink drawing, it can’t be fixed. So life is like an ink drawing, one mistake can ruin it all
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Though we think of ourselves as singular, we are also communal, drawing from communal consciousness. The flip-side, we are also distracted by the hustling, the strife of a working day. At night they dream...we write!~ their sleeping dreams, fantasies our dawns for inspiration, tuneful-receptors-firing-poetic-alive.
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Confronted by the awesome thought of death,
to never suffer, and be free of grief,
we wonder: What’s the use of drawing breath?
Why seek relief
from the bible’s Thief,
who ripped off Eve then offered her a leaf?
('Farewell to Faith II' by Michael R. Burch)
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Never let your good intentions get in the way of right and wrong. Otherwise, you will be desperately backtracking and redrawing lines forever.
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"Grief is that gnawing, empty pain we experience when we have lost someone, and with the loss of that person, loss of part of our own selves"
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