A sensual, soft suggestion – of something rather desirably proficient and otherworldly amiable this time. A smile, a lackluster envelopment of additional aplomb: One woman, two men, and a sad little elderly lonely nobody. Unearthing their thistle-and-thorn soul sometimes
And a broken, chipped and enthusiastic ashtray, smashed into opinionated oblivion. Yet it still stands, its livid general talking, all awhile all segregated smiles cry: Perhaps harder still, ill and perceived to be unique and utterly accustomed
To this living, breathing, tumultuous thing, called love on a shoestring wage of crisp sandwiches and hard-sought glasses of dirt-ridden tap water…
Entrapment, and this artist really ought to have thought about investing in something different this time: Clashing glasses of imaginary wine.. Why not.. perhaps, daft as it may yet get to be..
He is starting to whine into the alcohol-fueled nighttime?
This time – “Angst, meet make-believe rhyme”, and she draws a propeller-like line, so soon as an agitated artist’s last stand returns to entirely imaginative again
Antagonized and tortuously tremendous, perhaps? Oft than not decidedly daft… delicate and decimated design