About
an arrow strikes me, my heārt is bleeding, and I touch an artifact that is long gone. The time is before times, and the whispers of the wind pound the story of my brushstrokes. I pick a teardrop from the skies and bury it deep inside mother earth’s crying eyes which moisten the arid lands, somewhere between no-where and nowhere. I dive deep into the golden sand through the earth's core and then back to the exact meeting point of a canvas and “don panello” which is my brush, I am transmuting myself to become a clear rock that is breaking the light of the sun into spectacular rainbows of art. I am a heārtist, a wandering soul, I came to that present, to become a whole.
