They will say that this is all imagined, as if it is a vulgar word. They will mock and turn their heads toward a poured glass and scoff at how there are no princes here between this modern oak and calf. And yet, ink could pour between their fingers and they would wash it off. They would not see fit to make something good of it. And still they have the nerve to mock. I say to that, they are not clean, they are but bathed. I will say it to you, and will say from every tower to which my heart goes to ring the bell, I am here. They will tell me no different. I will send to you my portrait one day and pray that you will hang it in full view of those who spend their lives creating beauty. They are the only ones fit to imagine me as I always imagine them, as art itself. We are all here and not. I will write to you again soon.

This is a 1/1 Portrait