Sunday, February 12, 2017

Collecting damaged things may grow into passion when wholeness feels nothing but pretense. My cobalt Turkish vase is just a fragmentation whose pattern brakes without making sense.
Her psychic's overrun by road traffic. The screams for freedom to express may deafen quiet mouse inside her shirt. Unfettered spells of varied meanings take strong effect. She chatters teeth and growls in response.
I lived a life of a woman and reached the age of an artist, and there is no such thing as turning back.
Once I was told that art is not about feelings but purely an intellectual journey. These awful concept hit me in the belly like a bullet and ugly wound inflamed and started oozing art.
A crow on a tree may signal isolation to anyone who slows at the sight. He may be dead, or so deafened by loud bellows of the wind that ticking time does not occur to him. He chained himself to one of many branches of solitude.
Embarrassment creeps from under the sheets of cowardice. A taste of currency on a delivery ship's tongue. The hardest part about being harbored lays in the wake of beaten stars. Now listen, fools, there is no destiny, just destination, so come aboard without looking back. Life is beyond return, and pains accumulate despite the wishes for happy things to come.
All ladies were in love with Tyrant, who paid them visits via their dreams. He was in their dreams, the tyrant who was real, and real men are not as manly as we dream. The dreams that ladies dreamed made Tyrant grow manly because they were as sweet as mother's milk.