How I make my soup: I draw water from a tap...
I am not an artist. And the water is not so much drawn as allowed to fall, and to capture itself in a pot.
Perhaps not so much captured, as allowed to gather itself from its stream; the way it falls that the drain would have it.
But in this case a normal path interrupted by a pot; for which soup is the outcome of all I do...
One the other side of a mirror there's an inverse world, where the insane go sane; where bones climb out of the earth and recede to the first slime of love.
An in the evening the sun is just rising.
Lovers cry because they are a day younger, and soon childhood robs them of their pleasure.
In such a world there is much sadness which, of course, is joy...