i live on the fumes of passion, that which sustains on those lonely nights in a 4500 sq ft studio. while the cocteau twins drown any possibility of deep thoughts, i savior the polarized emotions by which they evoke. bearly a year ago i was probably near the end of my rope with the passion for the ‘work’ and if it wasn’t for her, i would be incredibly bitter by my own actions. alas, things continue to work out as they ‘should’ and i continue to stumble on the high road of "purpose". with 150% of the recommended purpose as prescribed the united federation of monkey monks, i walk a fine line of living passionately and not giving a shit if it results to anything.and you can see why a man be misconstrued by his fellow monks. the one issue is a question of time. i continue to live as if i have 50 years and that far too short to love her and create art. that is unless we become the art itself.