The wind, carrying a collective consciousness into the infinite expanse, is filled with the scent of regret for the lost connection with nature and Spirit. This sweet smell settles like a silk veil over everything that thought can touch. Breathing it in and absorbing it, time extracts from itself and from the earth the decay of all things
Thus, from the digested meanings and ideas, the living dead of contemporary art is born. Within the symbol, while it itself serves as the sign.
