December 17, 2001
The forecast predicts an act of…

Somewhere, lost inside my nearest good mood is the key to get there—a mind full of anger, for that expression, I’m given a heart unblessed with guilt… a mood, a mind set, a state of depression. I look to my paintings, and something will explain the rhyme or reason—a music-less step forward… a silence only I can hear, a motion placed inside a glass tube, and I’m trying to visualize the purpose to any reason why the pianos sit empty.