Where does the artist stop and the art begin?
I have loved to such a degree that the world, this great world, is of little importance to me.
Just like the art and artist - I can not tell you what words are mine or hers, she has consumed all of it.
Not as blade to stone where one refines the other alone, but blade against blade, through the nicks and cuts - our hearts did not drift abroad
We are at such a point, like the art and the artist because we stayed on course, we steadied our brush and everyday, every single day we fell in love.
p.s: Power drives men mad, and it is not its size, it is not its magnitude, simply its presence.
Much less than that, it's perception.
