Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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It’s assumed what could be done was done to create such art. That reason sits behind the infallible Nature of the clay-like sand, the tranquil lapping of crystal waters, the jutting snow-capped peaks and the white clouds blossoming in the blue field of perfect sky. And in enters man, in steps woman; their desire for love, their yearning for lust, their industry to acheive such ends. Breathing the verdent air, motive pumps blood from aching hearts into systems as intricate and miraculous as these quiet Edens. Divine hands moved each piece into place, and in view is tremulous worship, astounded fervor for the brazen breadth of his shoulders and the elegant arch of her collarbone. What decoration these slumbering Gods gifted day. What intricate fates they sewed into night. And innocence, unsullied stumbling from heights into pools of birthing hope from which each will sip and linger, drawing wisdom and killing cynicism. It’s too beautiful for alone. No matter how grand it all seems, it was designed for love and domination; no world immune to fever and progress. Dreams unify each glimpse into now, the architecture of paradise and the cold bliss of scraped skies. Build and build, and in the eyes of God both honor and destroy their aspect. Clean the Earth as you ruddy its perfection.


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