Showing posts with label Art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Art. Show all posts
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
>>> The block...
You would think that writing an article would be easy. After all, it's just a simple matter of putting pen to paper, fingers to keys, blood to walls with nary more than a thought and a moderate spark of imagination.
How wrong you would be.
It can often be a terrifying prospect to write something, in fact, anything really, that will be consumed by even the minutest of reading audiences (perhaps, like just your mother, for example), let alone the masses that comprise humanity. You'd be consumed by the need to perform to others' expectations, to reach your peers' levels of skill, to have your work acknowledged, accepted and perhaps loved more than the two-bit, two-cent writer that you consider yourself, to achieve some form of reassurance for your self-esteem and -worth through the adulation your writing receives and perhaps other forms of inner pressure and stressors.
Add to that the vise-like pressure of an approaching deadline which may or may not induce a hysterical, hyper form of panic. A boss breathing down your neck for the article that has you gritting your teeth and thinking of how to end him instead of concentrating on your work. The lack of subject matter or even too much free reign in terms of topic that has you pulling your hair out as you strain your brain for something, anything that may be worthy of your wordsmithing skills. Or even a combination of all the above plus a few other myriad other external little issues that leaves you in a desperate struggle of frenetic activity to lay down the quest of submitting an article worthy of print and publishing.
And, now, imagine, just imagine, that you're sitting in your favourite spot somewhere trendy and très cool, with a nice steaming mug of java (and that whole whirl of issues we mentioned earlier), gazing at your trusty laptop's glowing screen that displays the simulacrum of a fresh, white and very empty sheet of paper.
As empty as the sheet is, your mind is perhaps a tenfold worse, devoid of even the slightest sliver of an idea. Your inner vision, your mind's eye, is a field filled with white noise overlying endless planes of very white sand. And you would swear that you could just about make out the faint grind-like buzzing of static. Your set is working but not receiving anything, my friend, which in other words, means that you have gone just gone completely blank.
The horror.
The sheer abject horror that slowly dawns on your already overworked mind that basically sets you upon a regressive to the Stone Age with a vast amount of crazed gibbering worthy of a Cthulhic cultist.
What has caused this horrific occurrence of epic monstrousness?
That has made even composing a simple Facebook status or a fun-fact-filled tweet? That has reduced you to a drooling blank-minded zombie??
Writer's Block.
Dolorus scriptoris, by its binomial nomenclature, is the bane of not only writers but of artists, musicians and other creatives. However, they each have their own unique species of creative stoppages that cockblock their ideas from mating with their intended physical mediums. A dreaded yet familiar foe, a denizen that lurks in its favoured habitat of your mind, stalking its dark recesses, biding its time to strike.
And when it does, it drops in like the finality of a Thwomp Trap squashing that little idea that somewhat resembled Mario in hip-hop baggy overalls and neck-bling completely, utterly flat. You didn't really need it, did you? Oh, you did? Whoops, sorry! Cue rather silent evil laughter. Once sprung, it may never move. At all. Blocking off your reservoir of creativity and flow of ideas like the Hoover Dam on steroids.
This could potentially kill a creative's career if no one acknowledges the problem and accepts it. Especially if the block lasts an inordinate amount of time.
To make matters worse, it does not discriminate, it does not have a set schedule or follow the seasons. It can and often does strike at the worst of times. It matters not if you're normally filled with an abundance of creativity, inspiration and ideas. It will block them all from your reach and DEVOUR them for its continued existence.
In order to rid yourself of the horrid block, there are a few things that you can do. Firstly, do not panic. If you panic, it could potentially get worse in a very short period of time. That being said, just calmly cease all creative activity and pack up.
This is when you use your eternal lifeline: Call a friend. Or friends. Meet up with them, have a nice brew up and talk about it. It helps with the stress that it causes. Your friends, and perhaps even your family, can actually help in the removal of the block as your friends and family may provide ideas and sparks of brilliance that can carry you over the period of the block. And the block itself can't take the pressure of ideas and creativity coming in from both sides. It will inevitably crack like a bottle squeezed in a table vice.
You can also just sit in your favourite coffee joint and either draw or type random bits of things that will eventually collate into one large collage of, in my honest opinion, brilliant creativity.
Other than that, remove yourself from all the sources of stress, possibly search for a counsellor to help you deal with your internal issues, keep calm and drink something warm. Engage in sex if you think it may help since it's rather liberating. Just saying.
You can overcome it and break the block down, beating it back to its dark home.
Just keep calm, tuck that pen behind your ear and have a cuppa.
... is a trap!
How wrong you would be.
It can often be a terrifying prospect to write something, in fact, anything really, that will be consumed by even the minutest of reading audiences (perhaps, like just your mother, for example), let alone the masses that comprise humanity. You'd be consumed by the need to perform to others' expectations, to reach your peers' levels of skill, to have your work acknowledged, accepted and perhaps loved more than the two-bit, two-cent writer that you consider yourself, to achieve some form of reassurance for your self-esteem and -worth through the adulation your writing receives and perhaps other forms of inner pressure and stressors.
Add to that the vise-like pressure of an approaching deadline which may or may not induce a hysterical, hyper form of panic. A boss breathing down your neck for the article that has you gritting your teeth and thinking of how to end him instead of concentrating on your work. The lack of subject matter or even too much free reign in terms of topic that has you pulling your hair out as you strain your brain for something, anything that may be worthy of your wordsmithing skills. Or even a combination of all the above plus a few other myriad other external little issues that leaves you in a desperate struggle of frenetic activity to lay down the quest of submitting an article worthy of print and publishing.
And, now, imagine, just imagine, that you're sitting in your favourite spot somewhere trendy and très cool, with a nice steaming mug of java (and that whole whirl of issues we mentioned earlier), gazing at your trusty laptop's glowing screen that displays the simulacrum of a fresh, white and very empty sheet of paper.
As empty as the sheet is, your mind is perhaps a tenfold worse, devoid of even the slightest sliver of an idea. Your inner vision, your mind's eye, is a field filled with white noise overlying endless planes of very white sand. And you would swear that you could just about make out the faint grind-like buzzing of static. Your set is working but not receiving anything, my friend, which in other words, means that you have gone just gone completely blank.
The horror.
The sheer abject horror that slowly dawns on your already overworked mind that basically sets you upon a regressive to the Stone Age with a vast amount of crazed gibbering worthy of a Cthulhic cultist.
What has caused this horrific occurrence of epic monstrousness?
That has made even composing a simple Facebook status or a fun-fact-filled tweet? That has reduced you to a drooling blank-minded zombie??
Writer's Block.Dolorus scriptoris, by its binomial nomenclature, is the bane of not only writers but of artists, musicians and other creatives. However, they each have their own unique species of creative stoppages that cockblock their ideas from mating with their intended physical mediums. A dreaded yet familiar foe, a denizen that lurks in its favoured habitat of your mind, stalking its dark recesses, biding its time to strike.
And when it does, it drops in like the finality of a Thwomp Trap squashing that little idea that somewhat resembled Mario in hip-hop baggy overalls and neck-bling completely, utterly flat. You didn't really need it, did you? Oh, you did? Whoops, sorry! Cue rather silent evil laughter. Once sprung, it may never move. At all. Blocking off your reservoir of creativity and flow of ideas like the Hoover Dam on steroids.
This could potentially kill a creative's career if no one acknowledges the problem and accepts it. Especially if the block lasts an inordinate amount of time.
To make matters worse, it does not discriminate, it does not have a set schedule or follow the seasons. It can and often does strike at the worst of times. It matters not if you're normally filled with an abundance of creativity, inspiration and ideas. It will block them all from your reach and DEVOUR them for its continued existence.
In order to rid yourself of the horrid block, there are a few things that you can do. Firstly, do not panic. If you panic, it could potentially get worse in a very short period of time. That being said, just calmly cease all creative activity and pack up.
This is when you use your eternal lifeline: Call a friend. Or friends. Meet up with them, have a nice brew up and talk about it. It helps with the stress that it causes. Your friends, and perhaps even your family, can actually help in the removal of the block as your friends and family may provide ideas and sparks of brilliance that can carry you over the period of the block. And the block itself can't take the pressure of ideas and creativity coming in from both sides. It will inevitably crack like a bottle squeezed in a table vice.
You can also just sit in your favourite coffee joint and either draw or type random bits of things that will eventually collate into one large collage of, in my honest opinion, brilliant creativity.
Other than that, remove yourself from all the sources of stress, possibly search for a counsellor to help you deal with your internal issues, keep calm and drink something warm. Engage in sex if you think it may help since it's rather liberating. Just saying.You can overcome it and break the block down, beating it back to its dark home.
Just keep calm, tuck that pen behind your ear and have a cuppa.
... is a trap!
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
>>> Ten days...
I am rather amazed.
I've not had a cigarette in ten days. Not since my monstrous asthmatic attack that sent me to the hospital. It's quite surprising, honestly. No withdrawal symptoms nor any hallucinations of any sort.
At least, not yet.
Not to say that I haven't had the urge or temptation to smoke. I mean, even thinking about subject has me in the grip of the urge. And right now, my stomch is currently scrunched up in a fetal position which is rather uncomfortable.
And with no cigarettes comes no alcohol. Haven't had a drop in what feels like an age, not even a little during the BeerFest, which is an irony in of itself.
I think that I might finally be going Straight Edge proper. We'll see what I'm like in a month, and then in three months. If I survive that long, I'll design a Straight Edge tattoo for myself. Why? As a constant reminder to not go wander off the path and keep to it. I mean, do I really wanna get something permanently inscribed onto my skin and then make it meaningless? No, I didn't think so either.
And speaking of tattoos, I [finally] finished designing the top half of a personal half-sleeve. Inspiration and reference was derived from the Time Lord sigils/seals from the Doctor Who series. I've also added my own simply designed numbers to each "planet". The central one represents my mother, the one to its left is for my father, and going anti-clockwise from there is mine, my younger brother and then the youngest brother. The two smaller ones in the lower half represent the two dogs (we always seem to own them in pairs, I have no idea why.). The star was based off something I saw on Bolter & Chainsword, and stands for freedom and a galaxy of extended family & friends since they're all stars in their own right. yes, Iknow, it all sounds so lame when it's all put down in writing, but what can you do, right? There still might be some editing later, but for now, I'm quite happy with it. I'm just trying to figure out whether it really should go on my arm or my leg.
I'll post better pictures when I can get my grubby hands on a scanner [Oh, Ghooooooooouuuuuuuullll~!!! - Kaze] and then you'll see the insanity that my mind produces in its proper form.
*laughs*
Oh, and would someone buy this for me, please? *puppy-dog-eyes*
Anyways, I have this track on my iPod and I think that it's rather brilliant. I'm not sure if anyone else is following or listening to this band, but so far, I'm pretty much happy with their sound and groove. It has me headbanging, so, yeah, of course, I'm happy! I sincerely suggest checking them out if you're into metalcore.
And now my youngest brother has me cracking my head about what metalcore song he heard a while ago from my laptop. Argh. I feel a headache coming.
Well, I'm off, still lots to do and ever so little time to do it all in.
If only I could disappear in a puff of smoke like the Nightcrawler.
Oh, well.
Laters!
... and not a puff of smoke.
I've not had a cigarette in ten days. Not since my monstrous asthmatic attack that sent me to the hospital. It's quite surprising, honestly. No withdrawal symptoms nor any hallucinations of any sort.
At least, not yet.
Not to say that I haven't had the urge or temptation to smoke. I mean, even thinking about subject has me in the grip of the urge. And right now, my stomch is currently scrunched up in a fetal position which is rather uncomfortable.
And with no cigarettes comes no alcohol. Haven't had a drop in what feels like an age, not even a little during the BeerFest, which is an irony in of itself.
I think that I might finally be going Straight Edge proper. We'll see what I'm like in a month, and then in three months. If I survive that long, I'll design a Straight Edge tattoo for myself. Why? As a constant reminder to not go wander off the path and keep to it. I mean, do I really wanna get something permanently inscribed onto my skin and then make it meaningless? No, I didn't think so either.
And speaking of tattoos, I [finally] finished designing the top half of a personal half-sleeve. Inspiration and reference was derived from the Time Lord sigils/seals from the Doctor Who series. I've also added my own simply designed numbers to each "planet". The central one represents my mother, the one to its left is for my father, and going anti-clockwise from there is mine, my younger brother and then the youngest brother. The two smaller ones in the lower half represent the two dogs (we always seem to own them in pairs, I have no idea why.). The star was based off something I saw on Bolter & Chainsword, and stands for freedom and a galaxy of extended family & friends since they're all stars in their own right. yes, Iknow, it all sounds so lame when it's all put down in writing, but what can you do, right? There still might be some editing later, but for now, I'm quite happy with it. I'm just trying to figure out whether it really should go on my arm or my leg.I'll post better pictures when I can get my grubby hands on a scanner [Oh, Ghooooooooouuuuuuuullll~!!! - Kaze] and then you'll see the insanity that my mind produces in its proper form.
*laughs*
Oh, and would someone buy this for me, please? *puppy-dog-eyes*
Anyways, I have this track on my iPod and I think that it's rather brilliant. I'm not sure if anyone else is following or listening to this band, but so far, I'm pretty much happy with their sound and groove. It has me headbanging, so, yeah, of course, I'm happy! I sincerely suggest checking them out if you're into metalcore.
And now my youngest brother has me cracking my head about what metalcore song he heard a while ago from my laptop. Argh. I feel a headache coming.
Well, I'm off, still lots to do and ever so little time to do it all in.
If only I could disappear in a puff of smoke like the Nightcrawler.
Oh, well.
Laters!
... and not a puff of smoke.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
>>> BAD PANDA KLAN...
The first crew tee designed by yours truly, KAZE, with elements contributed by LIBRE and LOKEL. Wouldn't have been possible without the support from the Family! You know who you are.
This tee is designed from random elements found online while bored. This tee may never be produced, having been done for the sheer hell of it to help tire me out before I sleep. "With wings to see and eyes to fly."
There's some meaning behind that line, but I'll let y'all try to figure it out before I ever explain it.
See yas!
.... rolling through!
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
>>> Rising in the East of Life...
... or setting in the West of Death?
STUFF Banzai Skullion
This is the first [proper] concept piece since about two to three months ago, it's rough, raw, sketchy and not cleaned up in the least. And I'm not apologetic about it in the least since it seems to work in the design's favour.
Inspired by (1) the question posed by the title, (2) the Japanese traditional depiction of the Rising Sun, and (3) the manga Air Gear by Oh! Great, a certain patch/insignia design on one of the volumes' covers, the design was originally sketched in pencil with GraphGears, followed by inking with a mix of Artliners (Copics, Artlines & Sakura Microns) and then finally coloured with both texters (Staedtler Triplus & ZIG Clean Colour) plus shading with Faber-Castell colour pencils.
The final, full-paged illustration was photographed with a Sony Ericsson C702 Cyber-Shot mobile. It was uploaded to the nearest available computing device to be tossed into Adobe PS CS5 where a t-shirt template was lapped over it and then cropped. Sounds easy, but wasn't, even though it was pretty simple to execute, in theory.
Say hello to the very first t-shirt [concept] design from the original label [concept] STUFF, the Banzai Skullion!
Hopefully, one day, this t-shirt will see the light of day, being produced in limited quantities for your consumption.
PEACE!
STUFF Banzai SkullionThis is the first [proper] concept piece since about two to three months ago, it's rough, raw, sketchy and not cleaned up in the least. And I'm not apologetic about it in the least since it seems to work in the design's favour.
Inspired by (1) the question posed by the title, (2) the Japanese traditional depiction of the Rising Sun, and (3) the manga Air Gear by Oh! Great, a certain patch/insignia design on one of the volumes' covers, the design was originally sketched in pencil with GraphGears, followed by inking with a mix of Artliners (Copics, Artlines & Sakura Microns) and then finally coloured with both texters (Staedtler Triplus & ZIG Clean Colour) plus shading with Faber-Castell colour pencils.
The final, full-paged illustration was photographed with a Sony Ericsson C702 Cyber-Shot mobile. It was uploaded to the nearest available computing device to be tossed into Adobe PS CS5 where a t-shirt template was lapped over it and then cropped. Sounds easy, but wasn't, even though it was pretty simple to execute, in theory.
Say hello to the very first t-shirt [concept] design from the original label [concept] STUFF, the Banzai Skullion!
Hopefully, one day, this t-shirt will see the light of day, being produced in limited quantities for your consumption.
PEACE!
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
>>> A pleasant surprise...
Sunday, September 14, 2008
>>> Project:DARKFATHER
Two of the three pieces completed for the memorial to a friend who passed on early this year.
Shun, ye ol' bastard, this is for you!
With Star Wars and Warhammer 40,000 flair. *grins*
The third piece hasn't been scanned yet, even though it's already been completed and is technically the first one that was completed.
It'll be up here when it's ready.
Until then...
... Laterz, gaterz!
Shun, ye ol' bastard, this is for you!
With Star Wars and Warhammer 40,000 flair. *grins*
The third piece hasn't been scanned yet, even though it's already been completed and is technically the first one that was completed.
It'll be up here when it's ready.
Until then...
... Laterz, gaterz!
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
>>> Need some lovin'...
... 'coz I'm a-feelin' poorly.
Fuck.
Fallin' sick, gotta runnin' nose...
*nose pops off and takes off at a sprint*
... FREAKIN' 'ELL, GET BACK 'ERE, GORRAMMIT!!!
*nose runs off into the distance*
Fuck.
As I was saying, my nose is a-runnin' and I have a bloody 'eadache due to all the sneezin'. And I reckon it's 'coz I was clearing the worktable in my room. Finally, I can work at it... now I need a freakin' work-lamp!
*sigh*
And to top it all off, the crib feels HAWT, like a freakin' sauna. Gorrammit.
*clutches head with a hand*
And my head's poundin' like a boomin' amplifier on steroids being powered by a 1000 megawatt generator and being hit on by a sledgehammer, and to top it all off, the so-called 'soft' light exuded by the screen's a-killin' my eyes as i type this.
My mom's being a real ***** about me being sick, a freakin' first. And yes, I'm upset about it. I've never had my mom turn me away or anything like that before. Maybe it's part of growing up... something the lines of growing a spine and lookin' after yourself? Well, if I still have to grow a spine, I hope to fuckin' God that it freakin' GLOWS. 'Specially during sex.
Or maybe she's just irritable 'coz she's tired after work.
*longer sigh*
Nothin' else to say, really, just lookin' for sympathy.
At least I'm honest.
Fuck.
In other news...
12 hour shift last Saturday! Amazing beyond all freakin' belief. Why the hell are other stores playing punk with us in regards to attachment partners!?
FUCK.
Oh, and I drew a piece for Ayura from SBLS in return for a pack of cigs; and I still owe her a KFC meals over a very silly bet. Lesson learnt in this 'ere 'nstance is to use yer thrice-damned eyes an' dun' be too damn cocksure, sonny.
I'm gonna have a lie-down and be miserable in my room.
Fuck. Again.
I need sex, fer Christ's sakes.
FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.
Crap.
*collapses on bed*
*Warning: Foul language ahead. Leave NOW if you cannot stomach such language. We here at Musings on the Breeze will not be held responsible for any negative reactions to the following entry. You have been warned.*
Fuck.
Fallin' sick, gotta runnin' nose...
*nose pops off and takes off at a sprint*
... FREAKIN' 'ELL, GET BACK 'ERE, GORRAMMIT!!!
*nose runs off into the distance*
Fuck.
As I was saying, my nose is a-runnin' and I have a bloody 'eadache due to all the sneezin'. And I reckon it's 'coz I was clearing the worktable in my room. Finally, I can work at it... now I need a freakin' work-lamp!
*sigh*
And to top it all off, the crib feels HAWT, like a freakin' sauna. Gorrammit.
*clutches head with a hand*
And my head's poundin' like a boomin' amplifier on steroids being powered by a 1000 megawatt generator and being hit on by a sledgehammer, and to top it all off, the so-called 'soft' light exuded by the screen's a-killin' my eyes as i type this.
My mom's being a real ***** about me being sick, a freakin' first. And yes, I'm upset about it. I've never had my mom turn me away or anything like that before. Maybe it's part of growing up... something the lines of growing a spine and lookin' after yourself? Well, if I still have to grow a spine, I hope to fuckin' God that it freakin' GLOWS. 'Specially during sex.
Or maybe she's just irritable 'coz she's tired after work.
*longer sigh*
Nothin' else to say, really, just lookin' for sympathy.
At least I'm honest.
Fuck.
In other news...
12 hour shift last Saturday! Amazing beyond all freakin' belief. Why the hell are other stores playing punk with us in regards to attachment partners!?
FUCK.
Oh, and I drew a piece for Ayura from SBLS in return for a pack of cigs; and I still owe her a KFC meals over a very silly bet. Lesson learnt in this 'ere 'nstance is to use yer thrice-damned eyes an' dun' be too damn cocksure, sonny.
I'm gonna have a lie-down and be miserable in my room.
Fuck. Again.
I need sex, fer Christ's sakes.
FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.
Crap.
*collapses on bed*
Monday, July 07, 2008
>>> Crossbones' Tales: Prologue
JOVIAN CHRONICLES
Crossbones' Tales
PROLOGUE
Dripping with sweat and blood trickling down his face, he opened his remaining eye.
Through his cracked visor, he looked out at his cockpit.
It was bathed in the crimson glow of warning lights. Alarm klaxons wailed, viewscreens crackled with static and frantic comms-net traffic competed for his attention. And yet, above the chaotic din, he heard the sibilant hiss of leaking atmosphere.
He sighed and looked down at the simple two-dee picprint of his fiancee affixed to his dashboard by a piece of chewed gum. The ghostly echo of her last words rang in his ears. He plucked it from its place and gazed at the woman he had loved through tearing eyes.
Then, surrealistically, the picprint began to fragment and dissolve. He blinked and his fingers held nothing, the last fragments winking out of existence.
As the collision proximity alarm shrieked, his eye snapped up to his last operating viewscreen. The bulk of an escort carrier filled the screen, details becoming larger as the seconds passed.
His target.
He sprang into action, juking and jinking his already battered exo as the escort carrier's point defenses opened up, solid projectiles and laserbeams crisscrossing space, slashing up towards him.
A laserbeam sheared off his exo's left leg. Solid shot peppered his mecha's frame, gouging and shattering armour plating. The reactor was pierced by shrapnel, venting atmosphere and reaction mass like a glittering cloak of stardust.
The operating systems shut down, his last viewscreen winked out, his life support faded with the hum of the recyclers and his flight controls froze.
Trapped by momentum and inertia, his exo was locked in a fatal, suicidal dive towards the carrier.
Gripping the useless controls, he shut his eye with a scream on his lips.
Crossbones' Tales
PROLOGUE
Dripping with sweat and blood trickling down his face, he opened his remaining eye.
Through his cracked visor, he looked out at his cockpit.
It was bathed in the crimson glow of warning lights. Alarm klaxons wailed, viewscreens crackled with static and frantic comms-net traffic competed for his attention. And yet, above the chaotic din, he heard the sibilant hiss of leaking atmosphere.
He sighed and looked down at the simple two-dee picprint of his fiancee affixed to his dashboard by a piece of chewed gum. The ghostly echo of her last words rang in his ears. He plucked it from its place and gazed at the woman he had loved through tearing eyes.
Then, surrealistically, the picprint began to fragment and dissolve. He blinked and his fingers held nothing, the last fragments winking out of existence.
As the collision proximity alarm shrieked, his eye snapped up to his last operating viewscreen. The bulk of an escort carrier filled the screen, details becoming larger as the seconds passed.
His target.
He sprang into action, juking and jinking his already battered exo as the escort carrier's point defenses opened up, solid projectiles and laserbeams crisscrossing space, slashing up towards him.
A laserbeam sheared off his exo's left leg. Solid shot peppered his mecha's frame, gouging and shattering armour plating. The reactor was pierced by shrapnel, venting atmosphere and reaction mass like a glittering cloak of stardust.
The operating systems shut down, his last viewscreen winked out, his life support faded with the hum of the recyclers and his flight controls froze.
Trapped by momentum and inertia, his exo was locked in a fatal, suicidal dive towards the carrier.
Gripping the useless controls, he shut his eye with a scream on his lips.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
>>> A little bit of art...
... to remind the heart of loss.
In loving memory of Julie "Baby Jewelz" McIntyre, crewmate, dear friend and beloved li'l "sister".
May you have found your peace and continue to be watching down on us from up on high.
Much love.
Peace.
In loving memory of Julie "Baby Jewelz" McIntyre, crewmate, dear friend and beloved li'l "sister".
May you have found your peace and continue to be watching down on us from up on high.
Much love.
Peace.
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