Images carry a sense of becoming when they freeze a particular moment, yet the artistic element expresses itself through the disappearance of self-found within and without us, as though art was a refugee, not unlike when we seek refuge, it comes to us bearing the truth; especially when the limits of thought are enclosed by a hedge of responsibility. Is there a space beyond poetry and images where we can nurture our rights and illusions? I mean to emphasize the need for abstraction, on the one hand, inventing alternative ways to describe the life and the future of expression, and how the content of art is a science that constantly reinvents itself to describe disappearance before accessing it on the other. If this disappearance was inevitable, then let secrets find themselves a grave, and for the grave let there be a witness, testifying to the very essence of mystery and the future of disappearance. So let us bury our secrets like we bury our martyrs, thus art becomes the cemetery of things; a sacred and eternal cemetery; the viewer keeps staring at the invisible in us, only to see his own secret; he exposes it to himself, and himself alone, whilst thinking of others’ secrets.