The days are old now and the years have stopped whispering, we live by the cracks in faded porcelain, the chips in our painted lips; once new born pink, smooth a supple have kissed reality intimately, no longer like a friend. Even still Time eludes us, snickering in the distance, it's hands broken at the elbows whipping around wildly. A primitive lunatic. We the encased often search for purpose in the world that has shunned our cries and flinched at our touch. We still look for love through our glass eyes, but maybe the scratches, the smears, the eyelids that won't open all the way anymore have kaleidoscoped our souls. Miniature pieces conveying no real message like distorted static moving in all directions yet meeting nowhere. We were caught in the confusion, our immortal twine thrown to the wheel and instead of being spun within the stars that promised us salvation, our histories weighed our hearts down an anchored damnation or more to a forgotten shipwreck constantly being rediscovered and shunned for our buried value lost in translation. The others have bored out thier faith and have replaced in the gaping margin a self conceived acceptance. A seal on eternity. I still reach out, I wave a partially shattered white hand to those men and women who fear us as thier future without acceptance

This was my very first sketch of Delysia. The black like ash at her feet and the gold so close but outreach.