What am I, what everything is. What no one is. Human's connection to itself is hell. Soul weights and wants to sink. If you could, rise to your tippy-toes, fix the clock. Time. It is elsewhere, but close. We can not see it. We are known for it, and it knows us. We can not imagine. If it is not real... then why even comes to mind.
I don't think there is any truth about me. Just me. Have a mind like compost, indeed.
By collecting inspiring pictures, I would like to see what options there are to make atmosphere and I would like to build up ideas; the world of the mind my own. Words. Images.