Standing at a busy intersection of a major city, allowing the light from the bright-red flashing advertisements to assail my retinas. What goes through the minds of each tunnel-visioned pedestrian as he or she scurries through the crowd?

The cacophony blur of roaring motorists trickles through the mind. Brief snippets of cell phone conversations, emergency sirens and the general din of the city shivers through my physics. It’s a rogues gallery of pungent meat vendors and inconvenient beggars.

An impressive patchwork of thoughts, images and smells emitted by kings,  jesters, villains and saints. You can smell the exhale of the city, touch the anxieties of existence and hear the acute presence of death and life as it comes to terms with itself.

And now there are micro-worlds uncharted. They turn the system inside out, and expand in the opposite direction. A freudian dream come true. An open marketplace of freely accessable musings, insecurities, desires and vexations.

This landscape is complex, and each generation adds a new layer of tools to those used by the last – a self-generating exponential equation. A woven fabric, where each thread multiplies the possibility of the one laid beside.

The inner soul laid bare. Those intangible forces so real they start wars and build walls. They are now free to explore and cannabalise themselves like Ouroboros, and emerge anew with deeper understanding of the state of their own matter.

There are hidden worlds in spectrums of blue that consume phantoms in tired ceremonies. Memories of giants playing in the forgotten wilderness float in the mist like funeral pollen, and the urgent want falls dormant on slender tongues . There is sweetness to the flourish, a gentle creeping that enraptures minds of sorrow.

A wet slug, with tittering tentacles, whinnies like a stallion before mounting a rock to stretch out its silken skin and absorb the atmospheric moisture.

Here is where brilliance is live saturation, and depth is a slow touching mineral glow.