A travesty in watercolor fades into the background when surrounded by innumerable roses of different hues. Pastels and paper canvas aid in the deception while true pigments become diverse and distorted. Scents of the nearby blooms wash even the keenest senses into helter-skelter thoughts of the obscurity the scene ostensibly brings to the frontal lobe with obsession. Licking at the edges and trapped in the finality brought on by the unconcerned brush at the hands of its puppet master. Etched are the hidden meanings and words left to frolic on this bordered playground of white. Plato, Aristotle, Socrates and Nietzsche with their combined cognition could never have enough time to usurp this imaginative madness into substantive practicality. No, the artist rides a higher plane than that of mortal or superior being. His is the hand of time; the well-spring of unimagined inspiration; the untapped depths of the soul itself. Beauty is truly in the eye of the artisan and the hand of the servant therein. He is Leviathan!