Where does the beauty lie?
Where does the genius reside?
Is it together, in a well appointed Malibu mansion?
Is that why beautiful people fill my images and my imagination?
Or, is the simulation too real?
Do I exist in the moment?
Is the moment real and the map a lie?
Are beauty and genius troubled constructions of children grasping for once was?
Is life a shadowy remembrance?
Was Plato right?
Or, are the forms all we have to chase?
Is existence always questioning?
Is transcendence always death?
