And then. Then something happens and it's so big that all you can think to say is 'grand' and all you say is 'golly' and your thoughts spin through the inner space of your mind and you can't get the internet connected quick enough. Inner, outer, which and both. My chin trembles and the world shifts beyond my saturated eyes. Texture, everything is smooth and rough, rough, rough. Originality to the boot. Say it or say it well. If it needs to be retold, don't dispair. Someone saw that it was worth getting right. You don't have enough time to do everything. Artist, what is that? Not an artist until you sell work. Work? Do artists work? Do they see the world and attempt to put it on paper or do they put down what they don't see? Is that power coursing though my veins or blood? Is there a difference? Blood has been power for so long that it's thinking of changing it's name. How does Blower sound? Do we think or do you only judge, forming opinions on everything, choosing which facts to report, not adding anything but support? Who started? Will I? If I was only me, what would I see?