One boy in a sea of eight million people just trying to grasp the world. Noting his own intoxicating addiction to felt tip pens and the way that they resonate across the grit of clean, white paper, he stows his own thoughts in a journal and keeps an open mind, hoping with all of his person that the universe will lose hold of a small morsel of its vast knowledge and that chunk will fall swiftly down to his own mindful orifice; where some moment of truth may be had by him, secretly.
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Little Spud In The Big Apple 
And as that flow of stimulation whirls and finds a home it is soon reorganized and shared in the form of poetry and pictures of light as it is brushed back out to the world.
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