I know not, nor have I the power to acquire the knowledge to understand what is to happen with us. I have spent years in composition. Eons heading to what the departed declare of the realms before us. The way they liaise— jovial but cold so raw intently frivolous evermore beautiful. Inexplicable to a normal. Only you may fathom techniques of this caliber they speak—systematically of you. How you feel and make even I feel. The most I have possessed in millennia. I have been dead an eternity. Are you, Can you see me? Help. Missing hundreds of years misplaced love. Utterly desolate to the plausibility of uniting with you. My karma insufferable. Here you ask why my soul has decided to become incarnate now. Why now? You, Love. My soul has journeyed roads of mysticism to reach its other half. has sufrido sin mi, y después de yo sufrir ánima sola me di cuenta que pasaré unos miles de años reuniendo nuestras almas, remplazando tanto tiempo perdido. I have found you. I mustn’t permit such recurrent history to continue. For our stories are aligned in the stars. What the seers foreshadow. What the profits forbade. What the spirits so highly commemorate. Our coming. Love.
—Gus Leon
bulgaria 1976
An excerpt; From The Heart a book published in hopes of repairing remnants of what once was. Photographs like writing, capture moments perfectly fixed in time. Memories that can only be lost to the elements.
“And to the lover I once was, over trivial imperfection
delved into, mostly on desolate nights, I cried myself to sleep. Barely breathing, struggling to excuse myself.
Mostly confused, a young scrawny artist; wanting to swallow the world whole.”