inner-worlds
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It’s the dream inside the dream again—the most persistent one. The one that waits at the edge of sleep like a familiar ghost, holding open the curtain to the next act. Every night, it picks up where we left off, as if time itself decided to take a cigarette break and forgot to clock back…
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It doesn’t come from the outside. It never has. What you see—what you call art, creation, a masterpiece—started in a place that no one else gets to live but us. It isn’t always beautiful there. It isn’t even always safe. But it’s ours. And it’s where it begins. The brushstroke is not a brushstroke.The line…
