Art and One Too Many Chefs
The challenge: bring order to the whole.
Through design.
Composition.
Tension.
Balance.
Light.
And harmony.
What are they doing?
Ah’ the way the little bird whimpers and screams so very delightful. I can feel every wince, every twinge. It’s like sex, but so much better. The blood carries the pain, fear, pleasure, so much pleasure. I can taste it as the extra bits fall to the ground, even there scent excites me…
This is obscene, they can’t be? I’m going to be sick… help her
It is much like sculpting really, free the sculpture trapped within the medium. Reveal the musculature in all its scientific wonder. The human machine, it’s so perfect, a masterpiece of design; so much more subtle than the bold lines of a modernist but devoid of the frills of extraneous material, form and function.
Please listen, you have to help her! Someone?! They won’t let me stop it!
I can barely hide my excitement; keep my fangs from tearing out her throat. But that would silence the screams. Such lovely sounds. I want to see how long it will take to whittle her to bone and how long she’d survive the treatment, and yet it would deprive me from doing this to her again and again. Devising new and better ways to make her feel this, it is the only outlet they leave me. I make her mine, with every tear of skin and scrap of flesh, with every clawed caress she is more and more my creature…
OH GOD, MAKE IT STOP!
Oh God, make it stop!
Make it stop!
Please…
Through design.
Composition.
Tension.
Balance.
Light.
And harmony.
What are they doing?
Ah’ the way the little bird whimpers and screams so very delightful. I can feel every wince, every twinge. It’s like sex, but so much better. The blood carries the pain, fear, pleasure, so much pleasure. I can taste it as the extra bits fall to the ground, even there scent excites me…
This is obscene, they can’t be? I’m going to be sick… help her
It is much like sculpting really, free the sculpture trapped within the medium. Reveal the musculature in all its scientific wonder. The human machine, it’s so perfect, a masterpiece of design; so much more subtle than the bold lines of a modernist but devoid of the frills of extraneous material, form and function.
Please listen, you have to help her! Someone?! They won’t let me stop it!
I can barely hide my excitement; keep my fangs from tearing out her throat. But that would silence the screams. Such lovely sounds. I want to see how long it will take to whittle her to bone and how long she’d survive the treatment, and yet it would deprive me from doing this to her again and again. Devising new and better ways to make her feel this, it is the only outlet they leave me. I make her mine, with every tear of skin and scrap of flesh, with every clawed caress she is more and more my creature…
OH GOD, MAKE IT STOP!
Oh God, make it stop!
Make it stop!
Please…