Looking at paintings
my eyes are rolling, rolling up into my skull. my eyes are rolling their eyes. am i sleeping? muscles are twitching all over; it's too cold in here.
my co-worker died in the conference room a few hours ago. predictably, newsroom employees walked into the room one after the other and picked at his corpse like hyenas, cackling. his exposed ribs glistened with meat and, perhaps, some saliva too. i don't think there's much left of him anymore, save for bones and scraps of a burial blanket.
the little boy from kmart, ever cheerful, continues flashing the peace sign. maybe even in death.
looking at paintings doesn't make you an artist.
my co-worker died in the conference room a few hours ago. predictably, newsroom employees walked into the room one after the other and picked at his corpse like hyenas, cackling. his exposed ribs glistened with meat and, perhaps, some saliva too. i don't think there's much left of him anymore, save for bones and scraps of a burial blanket.
the little boy from kmart, ever cheerful, continues flashing the peace sign. maybe even in death.
looking at paintings doesn't make you an artist.