A fear of uncertainty shadows unexplainable features. A mothman over cornfields, spied by a single eye via a cracked fence panel, still clinging to frozen soil, still daring, even after decades of abuse, tortured by the season’s wind that plights the last four months of every twelve. That sort of country scene. Every morning at 5am I stood and smoked, half wanting the impenetrable shell of my bed thirteen steps away. The other half dazed under the possibility of eighteen hours of elitist sunshine. Unsure whether to remain impressed by the fact that his life had been so skillfully carved from a single block of wood. Choosing to favour the idea of many blocks being thrown together in artistic chaos – an order dreamed up by Picasso. Like Picasso, I was just as pleased as I was disenchanted.