..

there is something to be said about art.
well, no, i mean, there is really something to be asked about art.
What is it...this glowing, slow, magical fire, that burns me spine. Ashes, ashes, phoenix, rise, hail to flowers in those waves.

It's sometimes work like a sculptor, like adding clay to perfect the form, taking away marble to make appear what is, inside.
A struggle for words, a failure, maybe so, a leap into the unknown, the not-known, where you are nobody, unknown, not known, the price of anonymity and poverty in skills, fighting the fight of Goliath and David, yet again.

No. This doesn't make any sense.
Let me start again. Let me make all the traces visible. From the table to the pedestal.

The burning conviction that something has to be changed, something has to be protected, something has to be done, blazing in a child's eyes. The wounds, the aching, the aching, the aching, when a way has yet to be found. When words are missing and polemics don't suffice anymore, when the whole array of human desaster and excellence opens its doors -

Can it extinct what cannot be not?

Why do we always think, that something has to be changed? Isn't it almost as if we were a little bit too slow, pretending to fit? Things change, always, necessarily so, what a waste of breath to tell it to do so.
Where lies the bigger betrayal?
In human life, or in human systems?
Can an artist make a real difference?
Can a voice speak and heal?
Is there only short term healing?
Did it matter what they did?
Does it matter that we do?

Do the businessmen matter in the same way?
Do the politicians and the lobbyists too?
Who?
Are?
You?