As I dig through my garden of Marigolds or as I carry beams of pine to the mill for shaping I must protect the rings on my fingers and the red painted nails on my finger tips from damage from splinters or clay or bruises from hammering upon the statues that adorn the headstones. These hands are for holding and for feeling so must remain supple and elastic. In the same manner so must my neck and hair be spared the ultra violet rays from this garish fireball exploding above us and I wrap silk scarves over my face not to hide in a religious stipulation but in a joyous singing of natures most wonderful hymns.

The scabbard slung across my belt attached the firearms and bells and keys to unlock the prisoners held captive by the trouble passions of modern life; addictions and unbalances cause many to stumble off the sacred path. The darkness should not make you afraid, the long hairs of the dark knights should not tempt your weaknesses. The Goths and the Vandals and Gepids are all woven together in our bloodline from antiquity building a fortress of solitude for us.

Cymbals rattle from the trees and door frames hang suspended on dreams in the magical sentences of the poetry of the mind. Chiming winds lift up our galleons high over the saltine seas where the amoebae seeds of evolution sit waiting for the moment when the gloved hand of Osiris sends the life force into their glue so that they may grow into a Gothic masterpiece one day hence.