is an epitaph of the end of him: Always plugged in to something and nothing. Unplugged from the world’s color wheel; a hostile model. His vile diluent seeps into oils, turning all a tepid sepia. Screaming into a rabbit hole, he’s cardboard, two-dimensional. Absent and there, fattened with empty. Sitting like a noble royal, yet under the façade just a rotting portrait in the corner. Dust and pixel gathering, admiring inorganic shapes of violence. Now the world, disposed of this depraved subject, will paint strokes, write, speak of better muses.
flaccid balloon in hand
E. L. Blizzard