i´m not the stroke behind the brushed-on life
i´m not the colors on the canvas
i am the fi ngers made of silk
i am the omnipresent go-between

my passion is precision
my work is always lost
no fi ngerprints on any frame
no dust in any aisle

a single hands perfection
for the only one permitted
a visitant inside his opus
my inherited dimensions

a styrofoam silhouette against your silver skies
i´m the gleaming key to cogitation
the entity that I compose
a touch of two inside the one

the persistence of memory always on display
time and times decay extraneous
the paralyzing fury of a madmans reality
all is one and all is here

the paradox sources of harmony
force us back into the gallery

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