All art is dead. All music is an echo. They are surreal and beautiful cadavers which seek to trap and contain a fleeting lapse in rational thought, a lightening spurt of electrical activity which propels the human consciousness to the borders of madness & great phantastic delusions. They are the ghosts - of living transient moments of ecstasy & rapture.

(The divine director's cut frame # ∞: The Holy Moment.)

Art seeks to contain these infinitely ephemeral moments - those transcendantal leaps in our neural activity; and tragically fails trying to achieve that beautiful confusion which started it all; a brief journey into the realm of the senses....

these words, are dead and plastic. strive for that soft delightful madness, not through these words, but through the spaces which bleed in between...