to what end
Marc Chagall. The Birthday. 1915.
I like Chagall.
....................................................
It's all connected, isn't it? I know it is. But it's all falling into pieces in my hands. Then they all fly around in a fantastic whirlpool of broken-ess and confused normalcy that twists the scenery into perfect logic and order while watching me - watching me grow older - and older - in vain - in search - of a deeper meaning to the random-ness of occurences and the chances of connections and the invisible threads that go round and round in the air and i know - of course I know - it is really obvious isn't it - I know that everything is connected.
Labels: does the white line go
posted by sj @ Thursday, June 25, 2009 4:48 PM | permalink |
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