Get cracking. There’s paper-cuts to be had and mist the plasma across the pages of a mountain of words. Instability and necessity. There’s a vague path to be beaten with well worn folds creasing cryptic the trails. Man does the donkey work here and keeps hot the steps to maintain the trail-blaze.
This space sports no cathode ray burns, soap-bubble norms nor refractions from silica-stacks stung by early sun. Here, creaky timbers and plaster cracks, flakey-paint and fruit-trees. Space! Space! Yawning without and within. A little Italian toils unrelenting in the kitchen spewing steam plumes through the rooms – aromatheraputic allure lifting lids to drift the lifeless toward the source, more sauce. Fountain of use or utility.
Peering ahead there’s savannahs of white canvas, of wood and wall baying for chromatic conflict – a war of rude and shocking thrusts dissolving into delicatly articulated orchestrations of impossible composition.
Snap back. There’s work to do yet.