Bright Eyes - Waste Of Paint

So I have been hanging out down by the train's depot.
No, I don't ride, I just sit and watch the people there.
And they remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
All your lives one track, can't you see it's pointless?
But then, my knees give under me.
My head feels weak and suddenly
It is clear to see that it is not them but me,
who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind these books I read,
while scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me,
with some ideal ideology
that no one can hope to achieve.
And I am never real; it's just a sketch of me.
And everything I make is trite
and cheap
and a waste
of paint,
of tape,
of time.

Absolute Gold

Christo Covering The Reichstag

Banksy

Pop Pop Pop

Breezy, I'm Sure.

Bye-Bye IMMA

We hardly knew ye.

Kinetic Sculpture Is Mind-Blowing.

Arthur Ganson is my hero.

Lady Gaga Would Be So Proud.

Blog? What's that now?

So basically my tutors in college suggested that I start a blog as a kind of online notebook thing. It's apparently a good way of keeping a record of my digital work and things that make me go "ooh! I like!". I'll give it a go for now and see if it works for me (although I can't picture myself moving out of physical notebooks in the near future.)
Don't worry, this isn't going to be a forum for me to rant and rave about life's little annoyances, but for of a place for me to pin down and un-jumble all the weird and wonderful things that pop into my head on a daily basis.
Also, if anyone ever wonders what exactly it is that I'm doing in the glorified finger-painting class that I call Fine Art, here's the place to find out!

Xa