It’s funny how every day, every day The Artists Of The World dream dreams, living their lives up until the end, throwing the dreams to paper, to canvas, to the beat of the drum. It’s funny how every day, every day The Artists Of The World dream dreams, living their lives up until the end, throwing the dreams to paper, to canvas, to the beat of the drum.

     Only to…

          Only to…

               Only to have one stranger stand in the wind and watch for a little while. It isn’t that difficult to find the sadness in the beautiful ocean eyes of a dreamer, of a poet, of a dance and its dancers. They pour their everything into stunning works of firework flowers and rusted windows peering into Providence, just so one passerby might throw in the money for a cup of coffee, just so someone would stop scrolling and pause for the briefest blink, just to capture such a fleeting feeling and try their best to carve its name into the face of The Earth. The very few that are lucky enough to have their names set in silver make it past the barrier of obscurity only for a little while, and then the world moves on to whoever’s next in line.