"I feel writers paint with our words. Painters use their paints. Both paint and words come from the artist."
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Not in the hammer of the heart, nor the measured breath of being, but in the sacred interstice betwixt two beats, there abides the ineffable dominion of love.
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In my lowest, I walked through many winters - even in the spring by night - until I realized summer was within and all around me.
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"Painters paint with paint. Writers paint with words."
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I can envision some day in the future, where 3-D printers are a common 'appliance' in every home. The real question is, does it belong in the kitchen, bathroom, living room, or maybe the garage? Well, I suppose it's hard to know everything.
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"Reality is a canvas, and we are the painters. We choose the colors of our existence and the brushstrokes that shape our destiny."
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The pain of love is this:
the parting after the kiss;
the train steaming from the station
whistling abnegation;
each interstate’s bleak white bar
that vanishes under your car;
every hour and flower and friend
that cannot be saved in the end;
dear things of immeasurable cost ...
now all irretrievably lost.
(Michael R. Burch)
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Painting is the science of the mind, where we create something new from confusion and present beauties with colors, Poetry is the best form of painting mostly overlooked, and the mind's painters uses coruscations of brilliancy to present different images by words
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Rather drive down a country road, then an interstate, anytime
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"Words such as these; only come from an unrelenting pen that bleeds, at the intersection of thought and Creed's".
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Paradise Found: The point in which the Street of Dreams and Reality Road intersect.
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Great storytellers are buried in Mausoleums of marble with statues of angels. Great thinkers are buried in paupers graves with painters and classical musicians.
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