Over themselves they tumble until their mouths are smeared and stretched out over the surface. Crashing against jagged edged minerals their form shatters into millions of glistening shootings stars that dive back into the whole of the dust in which they came. Eyes cannot see into the depths of the stochastic nature in which they rise and descend. At the will of wind and seismic strings they are like all others, victims of causality. Not unlike the moons pull that manipulates them towards it like a puppeteer moves cold limp limbs.
Who does not see themselves, their mind, their lives, in them? As it must, Byung’s brush reveals everything and yet nothing, in the disguise of their turbulence. Visions of the human condition swell and egos decay, our footprints all washed away. Even the sunlight that momentarily shines through them creating that turquoise-like iridescence is not enough illumination to justify their journey. Sinusoidal rhythms eventually flatline when the bristles dry out.