in the time-lapse of illustration
a purple tentacle crawls from a large, black, coffee mug, from which a hand grasping the tail of a praying mantis rises to the ceiling.
Yog-Sothoth, giving birth to frogs and eyes, visits a businessman in a strange dream, on the moon, which has a mountain like the head and should shoulders of a giant in the distance, as the claw of some huge crustacean protrudes like a cancerous growth over the horizon and into outer space, which is just below the surface of some vast stormy sea.
you are dressed in a bio-hazard suit, an anti-heart sign stamped on it's chest, with your hands up offering the simplest of explanations, "it's not you, it's me."
a woman dangles from a hook, cast on a line by strange beings from above the dimensional rifts of galaxies, as a businessman points her out to another businessman, in a bleak landscape with fractal pattern mountains, and the desert produces rock formations that look like a man rising from the earth, over time, as we watch this all take place, from a table draped in a white table-cloth, dining on whole brain a la mode, and heart disease with a side of cigarettes, as a glass filled with vitreous humor and corneas casts an impossibly long shadow off the corner of the page.
a bald man who is half machine surfs the internet in clothes made out of burlap sacks, smoking a cigarette, lazily rest his knees against the drafting table, as he leans forward in a cheap office chair.
my hand, loosely gripping a mechanical pencil, drawing the mechanical pencil, drawing a mechanical pencil.
Yog-Sothoth, giving birth to frogs and eyes, visits a businessman in a strange dream, on the moon, which has a mountain like the head and should shoulders of a giant in the distance, as the claw of some huge crustacean protrudes like a cancerous growth over the horizon and into outer space, which is just below the surface of some vast stormy sea.
you are dressed in a bio-hazard suit, an anti-heart sign stamped on it's chest, with your hands up offering the simplest of explanations, "it's not you, it's me."
a woman dangles from a hook, cast on a line by strange beings from above the dimensional rifts of galaxies, as a businessman points her out to another businessman, in a bleak landscape with fractal pattern mountains, and the desert produces rock formations that look like a man rising from the earth, over time, as we watch this all take place, from a table draped in a white table-cloth, dining on whole brain a la mode, and heart disease with a side of cigarettes, as a glass filled with vitreous humor and corneas casts an impossibly long shadow off the corner of the page.
a bald man who is half machine surfs the internet in clothes made out of burlap sacks, smoking a cigarette, lazily rest his knees against the drafting table, as he leans forward in a cheap office chair.
my hand, loosely gripping a mechanical pencil, drawing the mechanical pencil, drawing a mechanical pencil.