She’s the kind of girl that gathers withered wildflowers, and sticks them in her hair even though their beauty has gone. There is a broken beauty is something such as flowers without life. Their crumpled petals and weak stems remind her of herself, and almost like looking in a shattered mirror the reflection seen is all too familiar. Is it wrong to collect the things that remind us so much of ours...

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She was a painter and he was a performer. Both artists molded with talent but divided by passion. Nonetheless they connected emotionally and spiritually. Her canvas illustrated bright myriads of color and abstract scenes of memories and mental photographs. He sang with an emptiness of blues and love ballads intertwined with lost hopes and faded dreams. Empty acrylic paint tubes and coffee stained ...

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