True words for art not just in America but the culling boards of the western globalizing world. Still, Grabs wrist with book in hand. *RISE UP underground and strike them down* Let idealness and our heresy’s fey and fy and Fay in defiance as cultural evolution and shock still hold sway as diffusion and innovation toil eternal in piss pools and yards. Look they raise there guns at us and slings and arrows of retched times. *SMILES insanely*, and hobbles forward, a museums a museum and a library is a library, Liberties are liberties ,a lies a lie, and a spades a spade. Do not doubt for true art is never meant for its time as I have ushered before, For they cannot harm the artist true for they are Cyrano, are V, are Nemo, are Storm, Cloud, Gunner, Sarge, are the man in the hat, and Lier and Marcuchio, and the Porter, are Gurney, and Istvan, Hudson and Duncan, Sisyphus, Spiff, The ancient Mariner, A victor, a Vlad and a Vincent, best of all though they are Rumpkin upon which victories are won in the past, but are received in the futures for all men.
In all ends there is a new beginning, always another angle. You have there in your hand a great power, do not forget it Lyka Reynard. For after the collapse and silent graves of years gone by comes those looking for knowledge to rebuild. Great work out lasts bullshit by a mild score. Now only if those journals of Tiehard weren’t so hard to find.
A fibulae poem of rue and doom. A thing few see in the dying after glows. A vast approach. It is collapsing. Knells of death are always softest for the grave borne. *To the survival of the arts and your publishing’s in this day of twittering youth and deviled old men *that’s a very hefty bad joke so no offence is meant .*

I refuse to twitter, I would rather take a knife and cut into my hand everyday on the same scar then twitter. On the bright side, I did find a publisher and sent the manuscript off. Reality has gone to madness and the voices that remain are lost in the fires that burn and crackle.

Well I was expecting on the other side of the ladder, thats the spirit, in my buisness reality is madness, but as dead men say the worm hungers for fire.

Wildflowers grow in spite of the pavement and the walls, there is no stopping them.
art cannot be prevented, it is life.

it grows unseen beneath the foundations,
up between invisible fractures.
and when the complaiscent arrogantly fail to remain vigilant,
this illussory structure will fall
and art will rise again, never having broken it's stride.

look past the illusions and see reality