A man watches the world.
He looks intense, standing still, he is aware.
He looks at every movement before him.
He reads the signs of the day, he has not moved.
There is an internal stillness, he is waiting, patiently, standing watch.
Your thoughts fall like golden oak leaves.
Like golden rain they carpet the ground beneath my feet.
I pick them up and use them.
I paste them on the line with wooden pins.
January 08, 2001bongaJanuary 09, 2001
January 10, 2001bongaJanuary 11, 2001
January 15, 2001bongaJanuary 19, 2001
January 22, 2001bongaJanuary 22, 2001
January 27, 2001
February 03, 2001
Words & Graphics by Tomas