“On the gist of the daytime fleecing of thought vs. writing, I conjured up an absolute soup of consciousness, dimly lit vagueness on the outskirts of time. Basic, inept and diligent attempts have been, are and will be made in the morass of autonomy frequently tapped for sense and source of authenticity, never fully revealing the recipe of choice. This is not to say that all is not lost on the confluence of gravity and prose. I myself have often visited these realms with dubious intentions never once forgetting that it is I who must substantiate the course, bring life into otherwise lifeless memory and track down all beginnings of idea to the One, the Ultimate presentation of literary excellence. How to gauge this elusive talent? Is there a baseline of intellect which harbors such a metric? Can these things be left to the unforeseen conclusions of Art and Beauty? Moreover, is there a common ground upon which all writing is judged by its reader? I believe these and other even more relevant questions and their answers lie just outside the equinox of virtue, that morality that brings forth words like honor, loyalty, vision, piety and truthfulness. Upon these words I gauge my life, my thought my ever present regard for that striving of the divine in my life, my time in which I am here to express and ask the question, ‘Who am I?’”
3-11-03 12:23 AM EDST
Ringwood, NJ
Thespian Drummer 