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omething is shifting, is it gone? Is it arriving? Sometimes I hold my breath, but is the air holding its breath? As I painted “After the Bird has Flown”, balance seemed to be within reach. Like an egg, shit is fragile! As layers build, somewhere in the background that old song echos repeatedly “War, war is spid…” and the earth continues to spin, nothing is certain, most of us hopeful as the surface stirs.