Memories soon follow.

Sitting now on the sand, I watch the sun blur into an aftermath. Reds finally marrying blues. Soon night will enfold us.

Vampires, witches and politicians.

What I do know about is my art. Because it concerns me. I do not speak for others. So I do not speak for things which profess to speak for others. My art, however, speaks for me. It lights my way.

Stars to live by. Stars to steer by. Stars to die by.

“You Shall Be My Roots”
You shall be my roots and
I will be your shade,
though the sun burns my leaves.

You shall quench thirst and
I will feed you fruit,
though time takes my seed.

And when I’m lost and can tall nothing of this earth
you will give me hope.

And my voice you will always hear.
And my hand you will always have.

For I will shelter you.
And I will comfort you.
And even when we are nothing left,
not even in death,
I will remember you.

House of Leaves. Mark Z. Danielewski. Read it.

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