Art has given me a torch…torch bearer to a king. I walk through a maze of people’s feet lighting their way. There is a procession passing, enveloped by a wall of green leaves and purple clematis. Do you think I’m playing God? Does it matter where the question comes from? Whose mind is it that creates…a heart despising, a love deteriorating like a gnarled and ancient tree; a vegetable; a rock; a forgotten thing. It couldn’t do any harm; a thing finally, a single simple thing with no desires or ambitions, no prayers…nothing. On the wall, a neon sign spelling out Truth for the succeeding generations of Neanderthal to see and dare to look away.

  

  

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