Monday, 14 October 2013

Conscience buckled but had been tenuous for a while; the reason those mulberry scars wax and adhere, and get well sentiments were tritanopic exams. These things plastered in a Byzantine mind, somewhere among mosaics and pendentives: the aesthetic and the structural. The memory and the manifestation. The skin and the bones. The skin that buckled that took the belt. 

The blue sketch blueprints and two-dimensionalize free-handed domes. Physiques are flattened, sculptures unsculpted and your nose and brow form a single line. Like the ridiculous borders of an empty parking lot, please chisel the veneer, add mediums and become an agent that leavens your sour dough. 

Conscience buckled but became everything. The leaves of mulberry trees. The fibres of optic nerves. The stairs leading up to doors and reflections when those doors are glass.