Along the banks of Muddy Boggy Creek he wandered for endless miles. Cutting stones in his old mind while facing a strong sharp low shearing wind. He never made it that far from his hometown Atoka, never felt the urge nor he ever thought it was a necessary thing to do anyway.
He was heading upstream, towards the pure and undisturbed current, where the river narrows and drinks straight from plants and gleaming rocks.
The truth is he was a collector of stories, of objects and ideas. He had a travelling mind and a well defined impulse for wideness and its capacity. The world can be discovered through technology and books or just by walking in the streets and alleys but nothing became really as vivid as the mirror views in his home atelier.
We met briefly last year before he left his place.
Krzystow Writes 