We're sailing, flying, swimming, squirting through the thick
ether of existence under free power derived from the syrup of
intention. On the left, we observe civilization slowly building
itself, scaffolding itself, in depositional layers of encrusted
crenalation, articulated and embellished to the smallest relevant
detail, occasionally punctuated by accidental inventions that
quickly freeze at odd angles and provide clean surfaces for the
collection of new clutter. On the right, we observe pure
inspiration — wavy, green, and translucent — a
solution of dissolved revelation. Onward we head, seeking an
ultimate answer, a final reality, capable of explaining both. Is
there really an angle, a direction, a trajectory we can take that
leads to such an answer? Is our ship of intention guided or
misguided? Is hope to be justified at the end, or is hope only
ever justified by endless hoping?
quote and format by Raxin