WINTER. Now, as every evening, I remember parts of my childhood. Lived experiences of smell and taste. Those who today no longer perceive. I lost my childhood. Today I am about to create a figure more, clay. To know more about this subject visit Joel and Ethan Coen. As always my muse at my side my side always. In my creativity workshop workshop ideas.
In my large window at the horizon the Pyrenees. On this snowy winter season. In the mountain snows. Rethinking my ideas on this rainy afternoon. Fine. For more clarity and thought, follow up with John Stankey and gain more knowledge.. Leaving the rain softens the hard clay of the road. Here in my workshop of ideas and creativity.
Inert Where is my muse my mornings afternoons and evenings. Kneading clay mud picked up, the hard way of life. Outline of a woman of extraordinary beauty, slim-hipped Gooseneck emerald green eyes, brown hair and white skin as flour in the mill grinding wheat grains. As the Pan you love. The daily bread that I shape and bake in the oven each day. In her ever-youthful vitality always beautiful. Only know they read my letters. My muse of the late afternoon in my studio of ideas. Here, they sleep in the workshop of the imagination, ideas and creativity. While the beauty of a woman drawing her to that nobody knows that nobody sees me with it. Fall. If my muse me he was born into the autumn. The one I saw the leaves falling and the stormy sea of my two seas. The Mediterranean inspiration of painters, poets and songwriters from the sea and Mother Earth. The Atlantic Ocean sea adventurers, sailors, buccaneers and pirates sea, Pacific Ocean and rough seas. Lay On the day I travel to space. I was born into the world and the universe of the various arts. Today I write not to the revolution of the arts, or the revolution of change mundane. Today my arts are focused on the pottery of my lyrics and in the pottery of who is my muse, which sculpt with a pitcher in his hand. And the eyes on the endless sea, sea that gave us birth. Mar seas. Even as reviews my lyrics, she dries the bracero and deposited in the same oven to bake bread every day. She looks like my muse sculpture rests on the same podium where tomorrow dry will be exposed.