by davidchrzanowski

Mouth of darkness: a wedge driven between boy and man equates to the birth of l’enfant terrible. A mad virgin breaks from domestic farce and we behold a striking visionary begging for arrest, with eyes we know not to enter. But, like the retreating snow on the first day of spring, we melt and give ourselves to the Libertine; a desperate quest to hail Bohemia. I am not flexible. I am human with a temper offset by lack of status and routine.