![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78HQ3zJ9avfciBDAL9wbnAxxTBTLwuYcjHjrURhVmkEAdi7J7TNjjSKaoo7a5nVkhj3jMkGdT8jlICYTO6tJuP5DFD7E5tnNk4uyWMNvQ6I6PMceoPHYnnaBTjwL-ypH5wxwR56GuGJI/s1600/Hills.jpg)
I feel like a migrating bird who yearly travels to one glorious spot and stays only a short time. All my instincts are with this travel. Each time my wings have grown out a bit more and my words and art are different in some yet unknown way. Today my breath catches when I think of the moment my art and I will see each other as we are. I cannot spill out my fears, cannot tell my hopes. The dignity of art must stand as it is.
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