Celtic, Champions of Europe.

It is the 25th of May, a Thursday, just like today and kick off is at 5.30 in the early evening. Even these simple stats seem rather rum and odd, in the face of the present time. It is, fifty years hence, and its the European Cup Final, and unfashionable Celtic from Glasgow beat the might of Internazionale Milan, to become the first team from these islands to win the greatest prize in European soccer. Not only did the players all come from a thirty mile radius of Glasgow, but were the first club to win the coveted trophy with a group of players hailing from the same nation. Hail, hail, the Celts were there.

This Art

This art is vague, has no need to define itself. It looks all around itself, and away from itself, to wherever there is that it can look to. And as it looks away from itself, and refuses boundaries, it returns to itself in comfort. This being so, then it is a particular truth, if only a simple truth, unimposing, free to give, and dominating no-one. So then, I believe, that it is open to love, and most certainly interpretation, and it is open to opinion. It doesn't rely on embrace. It is something of an oddity in the way of life. This art stands on its own, and is lonely, and doesn't care. This art, is unreality within reality, and reality within unreality, It is weak, yet it is strong, and knows that it doesn't have to answer to anyone. And then it is strong, but will not take its strength anywhere out of itself. And the word 'art' doesn't even have to be, because so many people will subscribe to it, even unknowingly. So if art is not art, perhaps it could be God.