Strange Symmetries: the Art of Mark Weaver

Mark Weaver, the machine, the artist, the human flesh bag, the gathering together of bits and pieces through some strange coincidence, a being of pure light, surfing on a star beam towards its final end, an immortal in the woods, scared and alone, a tasty treat for some poor soul, an enigma for another, an echo across a forgotten corner of the Cosmos, a chance finding itself forsaken to certainty, a chimera, an inmate in an insane asylum, a cross breed, something new, something old and decrepit, something natural, something not, something unnatural, something neither. 

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What is the sky, that it burns so blue with the white hot fire of a dying father?