There are so many such artists. They publish for a period.
And because you never truly knew them, and since you only saw them in representations, in your mind they glimmer twinklingly.
One day, it's become two, five, ten years since their last light, understanding that it must've been some time ago when they released the reins. There's a selfish part of part of you that doesn't want to let go.
I remind myself it was never about us. What does it mean to be shown, to see the light. Garner likes?
Yet, it remains. "Oh, I'm here," it remains maybe like a shadow over fields unpainted, a sort of majesty.
Flowing from cavities in karst mountains, reflecting pools, silent, framing constellations, echoing lights, each like wandering spirits. "Would you speak it to me," cratering hearts.