total current.
My head still turns whenever I reach that inevitable corner. That building is unmistakable, and I've committed it to memory. Its traceable presence, its breathing influence gather amongst its neighbouring structures, a landscape of a miscalculations. There is a painting I am particularly fond of, which hangs over your bed. I made a point to compliment its elusiveness whenever I paid a visit. There is no jealousy in knowing who the artist is and I know you are proud of him.
It is a triptych to be most exact, executed in a very loose and broad manner that holds little significance in terms of artistic ingenuity. But those light strokes do pull across the panels, a grid system, a map. I was silly enough to think that it's a picture of Melbourne. Now I am more enlightened, and while I cannot recant the former interpretation I realise a deeper set of expression surfacing from the picture plane. That it is also a map of your heart, the maganimous unerring and Melbourne quality, so senselessly draped over that remains of Europe that you have carried forward with glamour, and a seething desire towards the abyss.
You said your eyes are blue, but all I see is that murky green lost in muddier grey. I also see beyond this, that infinite spectacle of ruin, a republic of broken columns. There is something barbaric about the perfume you used. I think it is Marc Jacobs. Infinitely refined, it drops broad hints of degeneracy, an obelisk of concerns.
When the building disappears from view, the bus still plays a Robbie Williams track. The ultra-violet light refrains compassion. There are other elements out there awaiting me. I am compelled to profile everyone else by colour. That moment, no one is an individual. There are the collective stocks, whirlpools of ideas, concepts. Dangerous, cynical, and yet obtusely in-your-face. They take strangeness and fantasy, they pull centuries into common expressions. Your eyes are no longer window to your soul, sometimes I think I never know anyone at all. All I see is myself. It can be, at times, terrifying.
It is a triptych to be most exact, executed in a very loose and broad manner that holds little significance in terms of artistic ingenuity. But those light strokes do pull across the panels, a grid system, a map. I was silly enough to think that it's a picture of Melbourne. Now I am more enlightened, and while I cannot recant the former interpretation I realise a deeper set of expression surfacing from the picture plane. That it is also a map of your heart, the maganimous unerring and Melbourne quality, so senselessly draped over that remains of Europe that you have carried forward with glamour, and a seething desire towards the abyss.
You said your eyes are blue, but all I see is that murky green lost in muddier grey. I also see beyond this, that infinite spectacle of ruin, a republic of broken columns. There is something barbaric about the perfume you used. I think it is Marc Jacobs. Infinitely refined, it drops broad hints of degeneracy, an obelisk of concerns.
When the building disappears from view, the bus still plays a Robbie Williams track. The ultra-violet light refrains compassion. There are other elements out there awaiting me. I am compelled to profile everyone else by colour. That moment, no one is an individual. There are the collective stocks, whirlpools of ideas, concepts. Dangerous, cynical, and yet obtusely in-your-face. They take strangeness and fantasy, they pull centuries into common expressions. Your eyes are no longer window to your soul, sometimes I think I never know anyone at all. All I see is myself. It can be, at times, terrifying.