Everyday, it seems, time is both too fast and too slow for me. I cannot remember what happened yesterday; I cannot imagine what will happen tomorrow that will make me not remember today. Sense is a hard thing. Rock-like; lifeless but a reminder to life.
Closing time, I’m reminded of this dream where I’m floating on a piano inside a flooded room. Everywhere frogs surrounded me and I felt peculiar when I woke up. Now only this bag stands of a thing that’s been peculiar. Art does not exist outside peculiarity. You can thus say art is superficial. But you cannot say it passes.
If you are reading this, do join up as a fan/family of Stevie’s and help us link up with all those who sense it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive.
Thank you. Not from Stevie but from me, Bridget.