The art will not elude me.
It slides and slips like slime; it rises on dream-whispers like evaporating steam.
It complicates itself. It twists and folds like origami-gone-mad; like an all-consuming origami containing every shape and type of paper, consuming them.
This origami ball-of-everything rolls back and forth inside my skull. Plastered to it are old takeaway menus and newspaper clippings, school reports and electrical bills, all books and words and photographs reduced to pages, reduced to paper, reduced to a crumpled ball.
The art will not elude me.
Ideas that another might have let escape them. I wrestle and fight with the shadows. I do not fear them although I know Where it is they come from. I tear the art from them before they take it. They care not for art, it is abhorrent to them; it is futile.
It is futile. And yet, by my own determination, the art will not elude me.
Michael Scott Hand 