No such thing as imperfect and incomplete, there is always an opening for the endless form of worth knowing. All in million years, only burst up for once in such a lifetime. At one time there could be an erratic scratching inside the rib cage, something barging wanting to go out and be free, as if there was a large bird trapped and sewn between ropes. There is no use in beating the fragile figure to death, human is brittle and aware. There might be a time that home turns into a place of a face no one longer recognizes, so let the uncanny think, between seconds and spaces, between intervals of the thumping of a heartbeat. Some mistaken silence as it was nothingness, failure as it was unlearning, all of the uncertainty is another fragment of life, let it wander off from time to time, but don't let the fear of being lost tangled by the steps. Let the present rupture, pushing past and future so there will be plenty of room to become free with art. Write, draw, sing, act, so many to expect from a heart that learns to suffocate itself. So much to learn as the days pass by, search in the palm of the hands, fly in the presence of the absence.