But the grayness gnawed where your dreams were haboured.
The mirrors of your eyes,
of your lips,
of your words,
were emptied, their echos lost.
Your words fell into the grayness,
where no trace remains.
Gray into gray, your life flowing away.
Like a gray front of extinguishing tongues,
but the last time i saw you,
you were a white wave,
poised forever to return forever
into the whiteness.
-ARP

cool art books/



so mary asked me.

mary. how old are you?
cheryl. 18 this year.
mary. you're really quiet. if it wasn't for your work i wouldn't remember you.
mary. you have distinct work.

hur hur. so i don't know if i should be feeling happy.

bweah. meet my happy terra-cotta bear. it once had a happy balloon, but the happy ballon ran out of helium, so it had a happy rose, but the happy rose withered away, so all it's left is a happy cheryl on it's happy butt.

manda calls these shots jail style.