Abstraction is essential. It is a key tenet and cog in mapless wayfaring. The compass by which we’ve calculated starstuff as sacral molten matter in our dream-stream and slow burn. It is Romanticism caped under a lemon parasol with Impressionism stealing fugitive kisses which stimulate rosy blushes amidst the ceremony of grass. Abstraction is the ceremony of grass collecting quicksilver dewdrops and sending them back to the clouds like confetti manna in lusty reverse. Abstraction taps you on the shoulder when you least expect it. Or tips you off to a movement in time yet to arrive. Abstraction is essential in its functions as adhesive, ponderance, gloss, sailor, pantomime, and softly singing pollen. It comes in many forms though its base existence is ghost-feed and formless. You will never find abstraction in the dictionary. Only feeble and impoverished definitions, none accurately classing or having anything to do with abstraction as commonest gospel to liminal groove.