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"She tells me he’s mad"

Something isn’t right.

"She tells me he’s up all night with his hands. They move in frenetic and curious ways. He pours over them, drowning. Forgetting his breath"

"She tells me he breaks people into shapes. Distorting their eyes, stretching and pulling at the skin and bones. Bodies a turbulent flexture, legs too long and chest too large."

"She tells me he refuses to move. Rigid and forced in an artless hunch, bent with lead in his bones. Voices unheard. His body protests, driven without fuel"

"She tells me that he crumbles, tears on cheek and crumpled in his fists. Unsatiated thirst for disassembled structures and human portions. He cries to her then, red madder on his palate. An unending tier of those better. Faster. His hands suddenly stopping. "

"She tells me he’s mad"

"Yes. I say."

"He’s an artist"


I’ve never been one for words, always drawing instead of writing. I had an idea for a little piece and it expanded into this. I wanted to portray the madness that an artist goes through. Their compassion, agony, drive and fire. I wanted people to feel as if they were reading about a murderer when in fact, it’s a dedicated artist. For all those artists out there with calloused hands and hurt in your heart, this is for you. 

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