The story is age old, the recognition of the writer and the artist not always forthcoming, not always appreciated by the wider world, bypassed it seems by those to whom image is the powerful narcotic, the drug of youth, of representing their ideal on the world. It is a shame, a collapse of hope perhaps that we do not laud the genius in those who plug away at night, forsaking even the life or the other pursuits they wish to engage in as they dig deep into their own memories, their loves and reminisces, in which a sense of order is hunted, dedication and discipline shadowed and overcome; to those we must seek out their charm and set the record straight on their enigma and the mystery they set out for us to follow.