Art is being threatened and there is no doubt that it has always been the case. In this modern life that I am required to fulfill and simultaneously pursue its muse, the only way for me to let art in is to fragment it, to subconsciously obscure its meanings, and to translate thoughts that challenge time, which is perhaps the uttermost fear turned into enemy. Despite this process that is hard to speak for, I can at least affirm that the only complete form my art can obtain is in the attempt to rescue it.
Another reluctant and soon to be disqualified affirmation: desire is my biggest distraction and my biggest motivation..
...
And here I am still, persistent as ever, at 1:20am in the morning, melancholic Miles Davis in the background, too much computer heat, and unable to capture the moment as a whole because as it has always been my case, words can only catch the fleeting moments. (That of which can be questioned, the former sentence being a contradicting one and perhaps actually representing something - whatever I may want as a writer and whatever you may want as a reader.)
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