And In Fact, I Think One Of

If London Is A Watercolor, New York Is An Oil Painting.

I Was An Accomplice In My Own Frustration.

What The Eye Does Not See, The Heart Does Not Grieve Over, Does It?

Everything We Feel Is Made Of Time. All The Beauties Of Life Are Shaped By It.

What Was Evident Was That Mozart Was Simply Transcribing Music Completely Finished In His Head. And Finished As Most Music Is Never Finished. Displace One Note And There Would Be Diminishment. Displace One Phrase And Structure Would Fall. I Was Staring Through The Cage Of Those Meticulous Ink Strokes At Absolute Beauty.