“We are probably incapable of filling emptiness, and what we call meaning is no more than a fleeting collection of images that once seemed harmonious, images on which the intelligence tried in panic to introduce reason, order, coherence.”
We are moving, drifting…where to? This journey into the unknown, that place which allows me to enquire, to search the very essential sentiment underlying this white surface.
“They stripped me of my sword as a warrior
my pen as a poet
my brush as a painter
and my guitar as a gypsy.
On my way to the grave
they returned to me my belongings.
So what can I say to them
more than the violin says to the storm.”