Rude, So Rude
Rude, so rude. As an unhinged malignancy that has come to set the table, well in advance of the beautiful girl who has pledged herself to the great Monsieur. But then, art is “subjective.” No science of gray weapons and their variegations under the sun -- the clouds of electricity we decorate with though no one can name the place they came from ** So he was quiet on his way, knowing none could save him from the great similitude. There were heaps of broken dentures, spy cams, and heart valves, the skulls of broken dolls littering the roadside, their undinal, rosy features like sleep masks sculpted to hide a grimace of pain ** His mind clouded, his beliefs unsure. He wore a blue coat, and rain suffused his every pore . having come from the country where trees bloomed in his chest, to a tawdry city that was no one’s home because it seemed so obvious there was nothing else. And there on the path, where their gazes diverged, she was staring down at something heavy and dense, as he gazed at a small cloud, shaped like an asterisk. Around them was the detritus of an abominable city. He felt her leave before he saw her first step the ruins piled around her as silence around sleep. We turn to history as if we have no past The showers of May rain move in sheets though the valley like a great acrostic that spells out pain. There the truth is like enmity: a blue that coalesces in the mist, with shades of cerulean, maroon and cobalt. The sky moving sideways overhead, he stares at the structures his vision inhabits
— David Hickman