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Because of the light, from all over the room, the shape I ground into this sheet of metal leaps out and into your eyes. All of the billion scratches each taking on its reflecting job and reflecting its own 'billionth part' of the light back to you. This is all part of 'the plan', part of 'the action' . . . tiny scratches scratched into shiny metal.

Because of the reddened light bouncing off the red dress on the woman standing next to you, or the browned light from the brown tweed of your own new and smart jacket, my art piece warms up a bit from its own cold hard metallic color. But you won't really know that until you move or she moves or the pretty woman leaves, leaving you alone with the metal, both now slightly colder.

Because of the fierce and tiny green light from the tiny green LED on the tiny electronic device across the room, your right eye sees something slightly different than your left. A physicist will tell you this is because "your right eye is 'here' and your left eye is '2.5 inches over there', therefore the light's angle to this eye comes from 'here' and the other eye's light angle comes from 'there' and on and on and . . ." But who needs that? Your mind will cheerfully note all this as 'brilliance'. Artistic brilliance. You? You might just stand still and stare at some small spot and wink at the slight and subtle shift in the light, in the art piece. Left eye wink, right eye wink, left eye . . . right eye . . . left . . . right . . . art wink, art wink, sway and wink until, "Uh oh!". Startled, then suddenly much less hypnotized, you will spacey glazey eyed think, "Has anyone been watching me?"

Because of the morning light that came in at a certain and singular time, in a warm wash of all orange colors, all daybreak tinted and daybreak rayed as your wife passed through very early this morning . . . ah, your sweet and beautiful wife . . . the art's soft images that made her smile are long gone. Day long gone. Now, late, late, late at night with only a street lamp sliver of silver light coming through a small spot in the blinds, you'll get just a silent shimmer of art, some 'ghost art', perhaps a snapped glimpse of a sharp edge, or perhaps a samurai streak of a sweeping curve, or perhaps a pleasing and faint, faint halo in light lit wisps and light lit edges of the shapes and of the textures that go dancing about in the patterns of 'the grind'.

Because of the Light
	Because of the light, from all over the room, the shape I ground into this sheet of metal leaps out and into your eyes. All of the billion scratches each taking on its reflecting job and reflecting its own 'billionth part' of the light back to you. This is all part of 'the plan', part of 'the action' . . . tiny scratches scratched into shiny metal. Because of the reddened light bouncing off the red dress on the woman standing next to you, or the browned light from the brown tweed of your own new and smart jacket, my art piece warms up a bit from its own cold hard metallic color. But you won't really know that until you move or she moves or the pretty woman leaves, leaving you alone with the metal, both now slightly colder. Because of the fierce and tiny green light from the tiny green LED on the tiny electronic device across the room, your right eye sees something slightly different than your left. A physicist will tell you this is because "your right eye is 'here' and your left eye is '2.5 inches over there', therefore the light's angle to this eye comes from 'here' and the other eye's light angle comes from 'there' and on and on and . . ." But who needs that? Your mind will cheerfully note all this as 'brilliance'. Artistic brilliance. You? You might just stand still and stare at some small spot and wink at the slight and subtle shift in the light, in the art piece. Left eye wink, right eye wink, left eye . . . right eye . . . left . . . right . . . art wink, art wink, sway and wink until, "Uh oh!". Startled, then suddenly much less hypnotized, you will spacey glazey eyed think, "Has anyone been watching me?" Because of the morning light that came in at a certain and singular time, in a warm wash of all orange colors, all daybreak tinted and daybreak rayed as your wife passed through very early this morning . . . ah, your sweet and beautiful wife . . . the art's soft images that made her smile are long gone. Day long gone. Now, late, late, late at night with only a street lamp sliver of silver light coming through a small spot in the blinds, you'll get just a silent shimmer of art, some 'ghost art', perhaps a snapped glimpse of a sharp edge, or perhaps a samurai streak of a sweeping curve, or perhaps a pleasing and faint, faint halo in light lit wisps and light lit edges of the shapes and of the textures that go dancing about in the patterns of 'the grind'.

Because of the Light