Kaleidoscopic vision, Beaux Arts’s muses are clashing at the cortex level. El Dictador is drumming inside your chest. Crushed by whisky on ice, the eardrums are untameable… Pause… Flat encephalogram… Stop. Rewind. The lyra’s chord has spinned, spastic choreography of a stray hand gesture. Beaux Arts reflects society as it is. Without  concessions, its a sculpture of a hazy, euphoric, split-up addiction.

The muses of creation are enraged by their such very own beauty. Wise statues of a longtime past, are in a cloud of sound,  inhabiting the contemporary Odyssey in a manic trance.

From now on they are vibing on the steps of the ancient theater.