Sitting on a wooden chair, outside in the midst of the mid-morning sun hanging above me, pondering and letting the cigarette pour out of my lips like a chimeney. Eyes drawn shut, thoughts of less important subjects cloud my mind. My hands begin to move on their own, foreign from the rest of my body. It is only that I begin to etch the unfamiliar faces that surround me. As a take a sip from my coffee, it drips onto the paper, running with the India ink. To say this was done unintentionally would be an exaggeration itself.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Exclusion
Sitting on a wooden chair, outside in the midst of the mid-morning sun hanging above me, pondering and letting the cigarette pour out of my lips like a chimeney. Eyes drawn shut, thoughts of less important subjects cloud my mind. My hands begin to move on their own, foreign from the rest of my body. It is only that I begin to etch the unfamiliar faces that surround me. As a take a sip from my coffee, it drips onto the paper, running with the India ink. To say this was done unintentionally would be an exaggeration itself.
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Love it.
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ReplyDeletev.v.
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