After a point all works seem to be the imprints of change.
The state of no work and no motion is intangible,
inconsequential,
big damn lie.
We dance to the summer tune,
we share the addictions of commonality,
we stop and experience the marvels of occurance
but the truest of sharings and explosions have always been reached through work.
Either our judgments fail to ripple through the core or we actually put the influences to reality and make the most of a fragile occupation.

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Photograph: Rakshasa