life is short. hair is long.
music is loud.

eye patch

Looking back over our metaphoric shoulder, the clouds mist as the sun sets. Yet while we collect analogic fruit from the still, cold surface of the warming earth, brushing aside the obvious bits of twigs, leaves and dirt, ignoring many of the bruises and imperfections, we prepare for the feast of ripe proportions, laid before our feet.

At the same time, we witness new buds, new blooms and wounded branches bearing new growth. We stare in wonder at the many nuts that have fallen to the ground around us. We marvel at the sap that runs, year after year through the weathered veins of withered trunks.

At the end of the day, as we listen to the sounds that collect in the dark corners, away from the noise that surrounds us all, we remember that while fashion has its place, wallpaper its purpose and lifestyle its meaning, art—and music—are central to our being, defining our soul.