The impulse emerges from the spontaneous, head full of images that intoxicate the soul. The projects raises momentum decomposed into the sewer of the disappointment and, although there are things in life to address this, nothing can stop or restrict its excess end, which is a matter of fact. The impulse is fed to the elucidation once withered away in the past, it eats my flesh and drinks my blood to stay alive profane memory. It will be another ruse energy and fleeting, of these half-day or three weeks. Maybe. Maybe. I doubt it's a cognitive revolution to take root deep and long-term fruit, but the destination ground yet. Writing, of the same, although with a different tone, as persistent as before by the same quixotic.
David R. Moran Tegucigalpa
January 2010
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