marox_pass_works_in_progress
fyn gula days passed.

mornings many were up at 43oam. with nylem gone, and no trace or mention of his imminent return, creative propensity was high and there was a hum or buzz in the jasmine scented air like bees making clover honey in a well constructed hive.

the journals were works in progress and always on display, even with glue on the fingers and image waste all over the plank tables, the artists stole competitive glances over at each others books as if there was honour to gain, medals to wear on the breast, statues to place on the mantle.

"no," copello said when one of the giants who had held up nylem's palanquin asked if prizes were being awarded for the best journal. "we win each day our eyes open from sleep." although as copello walked amongst the tables, he couldn't help but notice some of the work was much better than others, yet there was no nature of judgement in his soul. interpretation was relative and if there was weakness in one area, there was usually a polar balanced opposite strength to accompany it. for example, he stepped up to a blithe faery, who was standing on a pile of discarded magazines as to reach the tabletop. her work concentrated on fyn's discussion with the washington hippies traveling to amsterdam at london's heathrow airport.
she had placed a lot of effort on the apparel and little with the dialogue. but if you turned one page back when fyn was saying goodbye to his dog snap, copello shook his head with wonder. she had done it in the dog's perspective instead of fyn's, which no one else had attempted. snap was anxious about being left behind in indiana, afraid of a german shepherd that lived next door, concerned about strange smells coming from the besson's garage.

copello walked over to the table where maylay, anton, nabiscus, and nimbia worked. it was the first real chance to greet them since his capture, but there was nothing ceremonious beyond the de rigueur. "he's happy, so we're cool with that," maylay said when one of the old ladies from the minstrel band asked if if he was glad to finally talk to copello. actually they talked little because not only were they respecting the fact that this was still performance, but copello was absolutely captivated with nabiscus' journal. in craftsmanship, it was breathtaking. copello, putting his fingers to his lips asked if he could hold it and turn its pages.

"sure," nabiscus said, and he smiled with that deep sense of pride that often comes when another amazing artist acknowledges your work and finds not only inspiration and recognition, but(and copello was commenting on the way fyn gula was represented in the ambulance and e room. an eagle in flight drawn on the arm.)discovers the reasons why you do what you do. the questions he asked nabiscus found easy to answer and the info he gave pleasantly revealed who he was as an artist and a person and as he conversed he found there really wasn't a distinction between the two.

that life is art and everyone is an interpretation.
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log burning fire is it you?
let the growing of the trees remind you.
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what's it to you?
who go
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