The Thunder-Spirit Night time--the orange Clouds withhold oncoming rain; Afar the thunder Lingers to oblivion: Restless are the ways That fulfill unspoken dreams Their lives amongst us, As time that summons passing As a startled bird To wake us in the moonlight Of a winter sleep. Douglas Thornton
Whether it be a blessing to be recognized for the work one creates, or that it simply pass into oblivion, it is not without some sort of worry that we undertake what we feel to be our duty and try to see in it the bit of perfection that we had hoped for. Deception hides at every turn and what has been raised by indecision often leads to the regret that it were better left alone. In truth, there is no middle ground in the work of art, it is rather the source from which all things have been defined, therefore it is we who return to ourselves by its acceptance. Let others then decide what are the rules of any given art, we must simply believe ourselves to have put forth something according to our nature, and if it is individual, it shall have the good fortune of being universal. These sentiments, of course, have not passed lightly, but it is with the renewal of bringing forth another work that I look back to the former with a sense of evolution; for it remains as unfinished as