Time, what exists as to allow the evidence of decay to peer into its own mirror. To actualize ones own impermanent revelation. Tending to stay in perpetual drift, floating towards a memory, or an idea not yet realized. An inability to identify a fixed position, how we came to be, where we are going? Thoughts and feelings become stuck in rotation, waiting to be heard. Yet in the moment that is sustained, witnessing your own murders and resurrections. As the echo collapses into its beginning, crossing over chalk outlines. Wandering effortlessly upon the Great Knowing.
Sculpture by: Blake Ward