Here, Hear by Tennessee Hustler

the two photographs were taken by ben bussewitz, September of the Summer of '25

check the link, click it below, check out Tennessee Hustler on the microphone:

Here is a song, Here, Hear, written by Tennessee Hustler

The Tennessee Hustlers Chant of Philology

The prime authority of the hustle.

The hustle of wide dynamic in phone lines to satellites, right to your television, to state authorities, to world authorities, to the world order of the systematic framework, to the channels on the radio, to the channels on the television sets, to the media-network all of it, to the prime hustle, the hustle of the Tennessee Hustler.

This is the number one hustle, the number one hustle of everything made, to all made things.

To the number one set on the number one show.  All the time.  And on-the-go.

This is the prime hustle write here.  Amazon prime.  All shows.  HBO-GO and HBO, forever.

This is the number one hustle, the number one songs, on all the radios (forever)... Tennessee Hustler.

This is the number one channels on the number one set, all the Television songs of Tennessee Hustler (maybe he will get a band).

This is the hustle.  This is the hustle.  The whole internet in one flash.

This is the hustle.  All of the internet.  Now.

This is the hustle; this is the hustle; this is Tennessee Hustler of Tennessee.,

We have got the hustle in Tennessee.

We are the best hustlers.

We have got the hustle.

We are on all the street corners.

We are in between the alleys.

We have got the hustle down, square.

This are good neighborhoods; good communities.  We have seen they have kind people.  We have devoted a lot of time to these parts.  Hustling.  Hustlin'.  We are the Tennessee Hustle and we have got the number one rainforest CALI; we have got the Pepperoni, Cheese, and Dough.  You eat them where you live.  The bakery.  In Tennessee.  The number one hustle.  We have got the hustle, we have got the hustle down.

And in the glass fridge square of the heart of the time in which the wayward beating hearts of blockers blabbing in the beat of the wayward drums the song that has got your foot pulsing to the melodies and sonic framework.  We have the sound.  We have the picture.  All on now.  We are the Hustle on your radio; we are the Tennessee Hustlers, who have prime authority.

In a put of cabbage of red lettuce, chopped, squared, hardened, cored, cut-up in a baker's hand, the seeds of cabbage of songs of wayward slant of the still-note notebook frame in the way of the claimed land, in the song of nowhere tomorrow, in the still-frame of slanting chance, in the ways of the yellow and waving green the earthly slant of knowing no thing, the brain of deft capacity has understood the pen that has a beat of the hat on his head, in a way to the goodness sound comes slant, in a pile of authority, the Tennessee Hustle, of the... Tennessee chant.

written by ben bussewitz

ben bussewitz is Tennessee Hustler.  he composes, records, and produces all of his own music.

This is the clever song of the clever man whose got a responsible and witty plan in the palm of his palm reader's hand, in the way in which she has the owl's and the condor eye, and the way in which she looks right in to all the steadfast and cutthroat authority, the nonchalant bliss of a tree in great caliber of a palm blowing out like a vulture's wingspan into a spring of oak leafs of a glen beauty of raven-casting of the dive into the earth-spring of mind-body alacrity and finesse, of the song of still-tomorrow in the light of oneness.

The Way of Heights

by ben bussewitz

The way in that the life on the height of balls of eighth notes of soy and chocolate in the swirly straw, the chocolate balls, marshmallows and vanilla bean toffee, toffee, or coffee?  The life in a swirl of floating straw bearing meandering of the straw hat on a strawman of a philosopher like Kant or Derrida or Wittgenstein or Rorty or Ptah or any of the Pre-Socratics, the way the cannon is misunderstood, their chasing tongue of the sound of their ways of worldview in a fucked up lives.  There are beauties in each wreath, but let's not talk about square-circles or anything, let's make up something we understand, like new names for all the kings of France.  There are more sounds than tomorrow in tomorrow's head, why not the sound of some electric guitar in a cup of ale in ice glasses of beat up drums in a beat up punk band that has got the groove of dynamic in a cup running over the century, from the twentieth day the punks had had enough, and they took down the authority's in the twenty-fifth year when they've heard the punk-ass assholes with crass sounds and smears on their cheeks setting off by the firecrackers of the Tennessee Hustler's funny prank, that gets them to topple over and be little puppies playing 'ahead, dead.  In the punk-rock authority: we are the best.  (Tennessee Hustler.)

ben bussewitz is Tennessee Hustler.  He is the number one of all things.  He is each person's number one.  He is the smell of the sun, beating down and getting you tan, he is millions of miles away, but with the next three .mp3's you've got him in the palm of your hand.

Strawberry Seed by ben bussewitz (the .mp3)

Peace of Love by ben bussewitz (the .mp3)

Beep in the Two Meters of Song (the .mp3)

- ben bussewitz

new song, written and performed by ben bussewitz

The song, to access, press the button below:

Check it out... check it out (Buzzy-B on the M-I-C)

This will be something you may understand in a way that is beautiful, or in a way that is an expression of sentiment, but you will find it in a lot of your thoughts and it will be great for you in a beautiful way...

This is not an artwork

A Riddle

Life is a riddle.

No.

That was not a riddle...

The riddle:

Life is an artwork...

check this out. check this out. check out buzzy b, on the mic. on the mic. buzzy b.

--> Always Taylor Always by ben bussewitz  <--

the writer's life 'till his 35th year

 

a pithy statement of the artist with no pen

This is the statements of the artist, myself, ben bussewitz, all five.  I hope you enjoy them, especially the philosophical depth and theological complex grids.

click the link below

a pithy statement of the artist with no pen, written by ben bussewitz

the life of the world shining down, the certainty and blissful complexion of every day a new sunrise

following three poems by Ben Bussewitz

"The Lord’s Way of Sunlight I"

in every sunset, there is a next sunrise— that

is just life, foretold, timeless and renowned,

in the ivy vineyard heart from the verse to

the chorus, the aroma of heaven on its own

two feet, inviting, for all of us

the life of the land,

all her love,

all the love,

all her love is true love;

all my love is true love;

Christ’s way of sunlight, forever abundance.

 

in every sunset,

there is a next sunrise,

Christ’s way of sunlight,

when our eyes flutter and dance,

in grateful moments of romance.

"The Lord’s Way of Sunlight II"

in each bright sky, there is days

of good life ahead, a struggle

with an end, a book stopper, .

held, then fed, in the way of

wonder, shining out as the sun,

is calm and transcendent,

again, and again,

and on and on.

"The Lord’s Way of Sunlight III"

 

in every new way i see the day,

there is a brilliant sunshine in

the calm, brilliant light of

Christ’s perfect Creation.

 

there is bright light, noble

firmaments, of spotlight—

the whole world in its

governance with life, the

moon, the spirit of the hearts

bringing out canyons of star

brights… star nights, with the

whole world arranged in

the heavenly heights.

The bright light of her shine,

glistening the azure,

as God’s own who purrs,

a lioness staunch and brave

and, I, a true

warrior lion, clawey-toed,

and vehement nose-scowl, and

the meanest growl,

that embarks and embattles

upon their howls,

brings stun-guns to the land,

the lioness and the lion’s

great duo-sum stand!

 

The two keep the day,

noble and light-filled,

as the Thanksgiving Parade,

and eat a dinner of quail,

along with escargot,

and racecars on the rails,

from a trip off way away,

Muscat to the Alps—

overtures to our conquers

of the chimpanzee theaters,

and the lace girls with

sneakers on their wrong

foot, and knees bent the

opposite directions,

of our and all we are,

heart left, science right,

to where we land a mean spot,

watching drive-in movies

across the over-arc, to the

mountain-side light where

in Banff, we rule our peoples

and in our beautiful and love

coming together in grace,

within, beside, and amongst,

our tapestry of Silk Road days.

 

The sun just keeps shining on,

and shining on and shining on!

a poem about love and hardship by Ben Bussewitz

“The Best Time”
 
 
by Ben Bussewitz
 
 
 
 
A Mother Earth sunrise,
in the blink-of-an-eye,
the life begotten if not loved,
in an aging kind of lie,
the skin a hard rush of earth,
in the poor subsistence of
cobble-work.  The rock
skipped down the swervey-up road,
telling where to go.
The hungry man’s weak knuckle
claws, at the open-sink charm, the
kind house and dressed-lamp,
in the time in a tired lap.
The ocean blinks and it cries out,
in languishing, steadfast anguish,
hopeful and out, loud and carving the
sand, where the gray woman stands,
and swims out before long.
All we need is love.

A Sweet Poem: From the Piano Bench

“From the Piano Bench”

by Ben Bussewitz

separated by a corridor,

family and hospital bed,

the old man frozen in fear,

he stares right into passing

as in the eyes of an owl.

outside they congregate

varnished in blankets of snow,

translucent air heavy over,

the woman who once loved him

replaced acknowledgment

with injunction, control,

a putting over, i can see,

of a riverbed’s erosion,

the price of the memory

of anchoring on the quay,

buenos aires dissolved into

an anguishing imagination,

the sailor forever a ghost.

what she did she had to do.

as true as the constellations

are to an itinerant wise man

to her is duty. i remember

through an ochre-tinted filter

it was another special day,

life goes on,

onward goes the rub and hustle,

the baking of bread and turning it,

rather, to feed where you are heading;

i found the creek’s estuary,

enigmatic as the phoenix’s

wisdom, hieroglyphics

of speculation the summer

the nile left us in wanting.

the shadows were darker,

but benzoin-epiphytic moss

crusted on the red alters,

the tide’s swelling contained

in a golden thurible pendulum,

a mist promising of escape

from disenchantment, refraction

of the wide-eyed spectrum

passing from just to more.

so i’d take it where it’d go

and as i waded the rivulet

day turned into night,

the clay of the current

into coarse sediments,

until there was nothing

but trickles and darkness,

thirst and being.

on the outer periphery

of existence all that exists

is existence itself.

i gazed across the border

that separates being

from not being

until i discovered

an impossible shape

of an unknown color,

my coveted paradox,

and stepping through

i came upon light anew,

a greater luminosity

in wisdom and understanding,

and there i found You.

casual was her approach,

a conditioned reverence

for order. nebulous snow

in chaos descended upon

the stately monument of lee

and the inscriptions on benches.

she was speaking of family,

who, what, and when,

in her grave tone of gravity

but i couldn’t hear her.

my mind in a vacuum,

accompanying her

to the revolving door

divorced from body.

in his time at the nursing home

his health degenerated

in a slow but steady pace.

smothered in loneliness,

he felt like a dehydrated rose,

his words he couldn’t speak.

what were his thoughts worth?

he danced in his wheelchair

and lived according to gratitude

while wishing economies

would adopt the morals

of major monotheistic religions.

he knew balancing the budget

meant cutting military spending,

understanding the war machine

just keeps getting bigger

all across the Earth,

a trend that had to be reversed

through diplomacy, transparency, and

a spirit of international cooperation.

the ethics of common sense.

he survived five heart attacks.

he was resolute on living.

i passed through the reception area

with her, watching the fish tank,

remembering square dancing

to the accordion in starlight.

he’d received his last rites.

it was my turn to say goodbye.

we stepped out of the elevator

and the activity coordinator

told us the extent of his sadness.

the old man was a character

and he brought a playful spirit.

i entered his small bedroom

and faced his quiet presence.

we enjoyed our last moments and

i told him what i’d read in the Sanskrit,

he was a good man who’d go to Heaven.

when traversing trails through the forest

i once fixated on the ground before me.

now my eyesight roams

with unfettered freedom.

on my way to my hermitage,

i caught wind of a plaintive melody

cooing from the distance

with authenticity and deepness

of expression, a female voice,

solitary, profound, and dignified.

i parted the path and followed

the spring of the music.

her voice became my compass

and my past receded into my wake

as the inconsequential circumstances

that led to the convening of our spirits,

my movement toward her song.

i could begin to make out the words,

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best

That from his Vintage rolling Time hath rest,

Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,

And one by one crept silently to rest.

i hastened as her substance took on form.

it felt as though i was gliding to the cadences,

free of fret, the rhythm of forward momentum

in harmony with Earth’s natural balance.

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,

And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;

And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d -

I came like Water, and like Wind I go.

i came to a clearing in the trees and a river,

water leisurely frolicking downstream.

a condor circled above, wings fully outstretched

then careened toward mountains in the distance.

that is where i found her.

as a family of elk forded the river in our direction

i sat beside her on the grass, in her calm.

— where did you learn that song?

— it’s an heirloom of our heritage.

it belongs to the family of the sorrow songs.

black souls delighted the fields and the wildlife

with those strains and nourished their astral cores.

these people, they didn’t have their own home,

their own time, their own space, their own freedom.

they didn’t have anything but themselves.

so what do they do? they sing.

— and you sing their song?

— i sing the song of humankind.

do you see— in the current beside us

is everyone who ever existed,

the pool of nature integrated in one,

the amalgamation of all desire and doing.

i peer into the water and see graceful, varicolored fish,

wisteria and lilacs, olive and elm groves, geysers and wells,

and i ponder, understanding how little i understand.

it occurs to me the answer to her riddle is within her

so i look into her eyes and suddenly i have vision.

— can you teach me to sing the song of humankind?

— are you a man of virtue?

Pittsford, NY 2025

a good poem: Spring on the wind

Spring on the wind

by Ben Bussewitz

Spring on the wind,
the sun has not set for days,
it feels warm on pale reflection complexion,
the movement into grace of days,
the grace like hearts of dolphins,
counting out noble chords and river-jumps to celebrate,
the underwater family alacrity in position in caliber of many
to fill up the silver frames and the time and clock we have framed,
until epochal shifts open
arising from the graves, the whole human people
responding to their wait, the pondering and movement,
shifting atrophy of form, quick now and sudden, the song
bounces suddenly, into more movement, style, and a citadel
of the old and worn, the worn without lottery,
or stock options, or bonds, in a ceremonial procession, 
of the life on the run, as we are counting our stars right,
and on above the seizure, both hands now to twelve,
the sun is just not setting,
it is daytime for all our life, now.
And so we shine like children without any doubts.

a prose poem: "The Time of Year Light Appears"

 

The Time of Year Light Appears

by Ben Bussewitz

            I was on the wishing machine, doing a dance of roses, when suddenly, out of nowhere, there was an open field in front of me. I didn’t know whether or not I should enter, but there was nothing stopping me, I could tell, and anything could appear in a field that comes out of nowhere.

            That was what happened in the beginning. I washed my hands clean of all that happened before I came to that junction and I scratched my forehead about what might become of me. There was nothing holding me back from being whatever I could become anymore and I could cease to hold onto the past, as it was now the inconsequential circumstances that led to me in this field of joyousness leading to eternity with God.

            There is something brilliant in daylight and something beautiful about the way it appears in front of you after a long streak of dimly lit space, floating in color by the light of stars and the moon. You can find a wonderful way of being in the field before you, where your worries disappear and all that you need is right here, in a perfect medley of time and space, where rejoicing on peace is truly great. That is what that day was like and I was so glad to be walking with my best friend and father, Jesus, through this turnstile into a new rung of open air and fresh love.

            She was on the radio, blasting from afar, her light a million and rising. She was in a perfect calm of transcendent bliss, doing for me what I could have done had I walked the path differently and followed in her direction.

            That is the way this is heading, Jesus led me to believe through the meditative quiet I came to in composed, peaceful prayer. “You are heading to her and she is heading to you. One and one equals two.” That was my mantra when I meditated on the eve before this day, this day when everything is coming anew and light is breaking through in the way of the goodness of the time of the peace and bliss and happiness and joyousness and love.

            I am grateful for her. That is the truth. She is new to me again, always finding a new way of being and replacing her old one with something beautiful. I am in a tremendous light of calm, entering the field now.

            She is coming there with me. I can feel her from far away. She is calling.

            We are in a peaceful bliss, a calm, composed love that is brilliant and amazing.

            I am so grateful for her, more than I could begin to describe. That is the way I can say it best. I feel it inside and out, all around, up and down, here and there, all places I go, everywhere.

            She sings me a song by The Beatles and I am in a perfect mood, when all across the universe she is in the friendly way of the birds on the windowsills making a call to the day a million times over in the most transcendent of ways.

            She is wonderful in her thoughts and her speech, brilliant in her composed, calm complexion of radiant perfection. I am so grateful to know her so well and to get along with her through the breeze that is in our wonderful eyesight and earshot and she is so amazing and good and I am so grateful for her. That is the truth. She honestly amazes me. I cannot even begin to describe it at all.

            She is wonderful in all her holy, awesome ways, and I am so grateful for her, as I walk into this meadow before me, wondering what will come out of it.

            Soon I am in a blue room, her eyesight. All is quite swell. She is in it too and she knows I love her. She knows I love her in her heart and in her soul and I know she loves me. We are in love. That is the truth. So what do I do? I kiss her a million times over and above, and make her go into peace of bliss beyond words. That is what I do in the field. I do it a million times a million, for the goodness of love.

Three Great Poems

"Holy, Holy Lord"

Holy, Holy Lord,
You are so amazing and good.
You are so beautiful and awesome.
You are so wonderful and glorious.
You are so unfathomably great.
Beyond comprehension is the depth
of Your love for all people.
You chose to carry out the ultimate sacrifice,
to save Your children
by the cross.
A Lion and a Lamb,
Mighty God, you came to serve.
Now my sins are redeemed,
and because of You my feathers are preened.

by Ben Bussewitz

"The Beauty of Tiea"

she shines light!
so much light!
light! light!
overtakes me with light!
she is the song of the sailor,
the shepherd’s best friend,
the luck of the reaper,
her beauty moves mountains.
her beauty is the midday shine,
her beauty is the moonlight and sun,
her beauty is the power of the ocean,
her beauty is the tenderness of mary's song.
i am so grateful for her, i hardly have words.
in silent prayer i thank God for her.

by Ben Bussewitz

"The Open Way of Heaven"

in the winding grass on the hill her face transcends,
in a beautiful grace that God has manifested.
here we are, always together.
she is so grateful she is in the peace of
the time of the light of the Lamb.
it is so loving and awesome the way Jesus brings
our hearts together in shapes of twos and threes,
and salvation.


an amazing dart of Cupid has struck her.
she received it with a shooting star
in her heart of heart,
it hit just right.
and He brought it, special for her.
and then a magic carpet,
with a rose garden blessing
of blissful life.

she and i glide through.

our souls' comportment,
by the loving gift of grace,
encapsulates us in
the enchanted forest
where we hike to the tallest cliffs
and gaze outward
for miles upon miles,
our spirits soaring on and on.
and all of each other,
and The Holy Lord.

she is so wonderful
in this infinite meadow of love.

she is so wonderful.

so amazing and holy and wonderful indeed.

and so loving.

so, so loving.


it brings me to my knees.
always thanking Jesus
for the love and goodness she bequeaths.

—

even though the spinning factory,
by fertile, verdant hills of open plains,
runs in diagonals with a spinning slant
and peace of mind eludes them there,
with their millweed fields that’re barren,
and toiling for more,
not having much
or not having enough to begin,
arranging parts that combine obscene
in a mad forgetfulness
completely lacking rationality,
their hopes in vain,
copper metals weighing heavier
by the passing of each day.
and it shouldn't have happened
what happened that way.

she is my everything forever.
and we will be together forever someday.

by Ben Bussewitz

Seventeen New Songs composed and performed by Ben Bussewitz

Early Recordings

Tennessee Hustlers' Records

"Our Song" by ben bussewitz

--> poetry in song, "Our Song" by ben bussewitz

"Video Soundtrack" by ben bussewitz

--> poetry in song, "Video Soundtrack" by ben bussewitz

"The Country Pop Star Gal" by ben bussewitz

"A Joyce Plum Fairy?" by Ben Bussewitz

--> poetry in song, "A Joyce Plum Fairy?" by Ben Yosaf Aperitif (Ben Bussewitz)

"Tidal Wave Macabre Beach" by Ben Bussewitz

--> poetry in song, "Tidal Wave Macabre Beach" by Ben Bussewitz

"Sonnet" by ben bussewitz. composed in 2012. released to public in 2025. performed only once live, in 2012, on East Ave. small coffee shop in Rochester, NY.

--> poetry in song, "Sonnet" by ben bussewitz

"1, 2" by Ben Bussewitz

--> poetry in song, "1, 2" by Ben Yosaf Aperitif (Ben Bussewitz)

"Hamnet's Soliloquy" by Ben Bussewitz

--> poetry in song, "Hamnet's Soliloquy" by Ben Bussewitz

"Hallelujah" by ben bussewitz

"Elegy of a Young Striver" by Ben Bussewitz

--> poetry to "Elegy of a Young Striver" by Ben Bussewitz

"Im’a Write a Song" by Ben Bussewitz

"On The Other Side Of The Rainbow" by Ben Bussewitz

"The Bay" by Ben Bussewitz

"Everybody's Name" by Ben Bussewitz

"America" by Ben Bussewitz

--> poetry in song, "America" by Ben Bussewitz

"The Quick Take-Over" by Ben Aperitif (Ben Bussewitz)

"Sunshine" by ben bussewitz

Artistic Essay by Ben Bussewitz

Click this link and you will download a .pdf of an artistic essay entitled A Way of Writing in Sand by Ben Bussewitz

or to read in on Mullsay the Zine, here you go:

Ben Bussewitz

Philosophy Paper

February 2025

A Way of Writing in Sand

            People search, wonder, stumble upon, discover, and sometimes it comes true.  Love, meaning, and truth to all that they inquire upon and see in terms of that which is loving meaningful, and true.  Beyond the river blue.  Open horizons in any direction everywhere-wide and narrow and straight, right on through; and then they shout from above the mountaintop sunrise, within the light of their pretty blue or green or sunflower jasper hazel eyes, thank goodness for the azure blue brimming with sediments-of-the-cascading pink and rose-unto-silver violet and Mozart-royal and Beethoven-cue, right on cue.  And as they shine out their colors, all the colors spin and then they slant and fall down in every direction.  Wherever they go, the light is shining.  It shines right on through.  It shines in every direction.  It shines in every color too. In all there is, there is white light, grey, and sequin, shouting out and brimming, sequoias of life and liturgy turning forth in time and vibing with the bright vibrant vibrations of all they are and want to be for their best wishes, hopes, and dreams.

            That is to say: when one looks at life a certain way, in cylindrical retrospect, in the hope they turn forth unto their sequences of transpiring events, from the beginning of their life unto where they stand, with their hope that is as great as Luther Jr. looking beyond the mountaintops, beyond the rooftops of the sky, as diligent and heartfelt as Malcolm’s by-any-means’ categories of flavor in the blue-cloud-nimbus, as far forward as the entreaties of the building-block civilizational hills, beyond all categories, in the wholeness of sound and color and taste and touch, as it fills up the life of, as Ghandi wisely puts it, the children of God, and as I extend that metaphor, the children of God, or, the people of the third planet away from the sun, when looking within to the life surrounds, and the whishing-and-whispering wind and moments, one can see, as she or he reflects in the pleasant calmness of introspection with one’s clear pretty blue or green or sunflower jasper eyes, the way of one’s life is that she or he is, in the core of who the person is, all their central momentum of all the person has understood forever— that she or he is aiming to carry out goodness in terms of objective truth, meaning, and love, and they are carrying that out selflessly, even at moments that might trip them up, even at moments in which they get a little out of hand, get a little tongue-in-cheek, lose her or his best interest, the individual is momentarily found in the home of wanting to be good in some way or some other, and this is well-understood.  Aristotle, a man who lived before I was even a kid— he incisively stated that happiness and the good are that for which all interactions, decisions, and thoughts of humankind are aimed.  People aim to do good things, whether it is directly or indirectly, laden with goodness or benign, whether laughing to the bank or chasing their way in rhymes.

            In other words: the way in which all things are well-understood is in the all-knowing eye of truth.  The Sphinx has that.  I do too.  So can you! And you can for song and dance, or whatever floats the bubble to the water well-fed in the kindly fragrant, gladly esteemed color of you.

“the way to discover”… a poem by Ben Bussewitz

“the way to discover"

  by Ben Bussewitz

well, now i am seated.

this is when i figure out what i need to do.

when do i discover the new way to uncover

the parallels of the mysteries

laid out in space over history?

when do i figure out what chains of theories

connected to the platform of love,

interceded from above, into the heart of a dove?

around me, mortal eyes,

staring with complexion,

into my profound introspection

of which they all oblige.

at my desk, seated for aquatics

life for journey, plant something spawning

memories and trips to the field,

away to the harvest oak, mellow, full of hope,

in the creek that simmers on,

rushes and rattles along, just like that Terrell song,

on the seat where my dreams belong and come on strong,

compassion and patience for all, to detach from my longings,

breathing in the hula hoop peace of her, with my heart made from clay,

running all the time, for all of time, created for all days,

with peace of mind, and her by my side on the beach,

writing our names in the sand,

never to fade away,

made from clay,

never to fade away.