I remember that stick so vividly. It stands out like a cesarean scar on my mind; in a grueling hour long instant I was saved the trauma of giving birth to a bloated idea naturally. Such insight was thrust upon me and then taken out like a yharnamite whore, and in those few seconds we, or at least me and the image of You I generated in that very moment, both affirmed so loudly that which was unspoken and will continue to be unspoken. It was a moment of pure nakedness, the vulgarity of it somehow transcendental, it was art given flesh. The more the art is thought about, the more it descends into the mortal plane of ideas that can be dissected and killed, and in that sense I am afraid to truly witness the event that appears when I close my eyes. Sometimes a stick is just a stick, but sometimes a stick is all it takes to change the course of your life forever.