death death death death all around, stifled in the subserviance and subversive concrete cemetary which has building rising from the mortared ground like haphazard (yet fantastically architectured) tombstones marking the devastation of another man's fortune or some faint woman's dreams, how easy it is to forget all of this, how fanatical our focus to loose all comprehension and consideration of everything that surrounds and inspires, oh! inspires the very bounty of such castaway lots, such waste.... such waste -
- and he? does. not. waste. waste not want not, the adage goes, and far be it from him to waste the time given (granted or stolen?) to begin venturing into the all-important vestibule of travel, because you can only see so much from your own studio, and you can only create so much from the same inspiration day in and day out...... back to inspiration, are we?...... but that it what draws. him. here. to Jersey, to the city, to this stronghold across the Bay he travels amazingly light, a satchel, a jacket, and nary the clothes on his back (that, darling, is what credit cards are for), the torn jeans hung daringly low on slim hips, held by only the most dramatic of belt's grip, countered by the contoured fit the black sweater beneath a dastardly stylish coat and now? now he is in Jersey City, recognized by Prince Ebony, and with two months to make something of himself |
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