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Come Walk In The Dull Light Of Your Own Seeing, Come See And Change Things For The Better; My Whole Life Just Feels Like A Gallery, You And Me Walking To The Top Of The World In Bunny Heels

from In The Frame Of An Old Skyline Waltz, We Shall Take A Walk Through The Ruins Of America, As Light Starts Creeping Around Into A Vast Field Of Dust And Dirt by Wings Of An Angel

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Wings Of An Angel Israel

My own identity feels like a construct, a collection of roles and personas worn like so many masks. Who am I, really?

Perhaps in the end, we are all just characters in someone else's novel, puppets dancing on strings we cannot see.
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