I whisper, "Paint and draw a sad man; behold his flaunting posture, a balanced silohette that blends the moment above some crazy mother chant." Beneath a blue portrait you dress surreal stares in nude scarlet, manipulating the raw sweep of sweat (water to blood) delerious from illussion, drunk with the bittersweet suffering of wasted life. Frantically I recall mostly screaming detail: smooth symmetry of proportion not quite advanced to unity. I am opaque, but he is clear to eternity. Me: Tiny figure haphazardly sordid, but felt most importantly. Gone are these absurd arms, electric girl exposed or etched in ugly strokes, depiction angry abstract floods of space. My Death: A comedy that inspires shape.
