I see their pieces and start to gush from the incision like slashes, their art, the lush strokes of brush strokes bring the gashes. I get choked up from their story telling tea stains and coloured reminiscence deep drained from the ditches of their psyches. I lurch forward, double over with the impact- intact- in that I can't touch back, the way it touches me as an invisible surface divides the sides we stand on, trying too hard to wash back with the tides. It is spirit and I am bone, dethroned in the face of perspective. Rejected by the lines, lost in mechanical lights is where I tend to see them. The little dying tendrils, rolling off hands onto paper parchments distant lands.