Her Eyes in My DreamThe contrast is way too high in this vision of mine. The blacks are not black, they’re the space between stars. The greens are not green, they are the jewels of Ireland. The reds give the scarlet sheen of blood a glance and turn away sneering. Everything is too real. And everything is moving quickly. Shapes, indistinguishable. Blurs and whisps press themselves against the corneas, pushing themselves into the cracks of the brain and settle down for a nice tea. The only object with any frame of realness to it is the sky blue car, old, rusty, but fast. In this car I sit, in the driver’s seat but out of control. I never had it anyway, didn’t thinHer Eyes in My Dream
The Thin ReaperSomething I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wrap my head is the look of someone’s eyes when they’re really really dead. It’s seems strange that I’d have to designate a level of death, as death seems so final and uncompromising in it’s demeanour over a person. But when I say really dead, I mean REALLY dead. Some bodies, when you look at them, seem to have the ability to spring back to life at their will. This is of course not the case, but the illusion is strong. Some people seem like they were never really alive, so death isn’t much of a change, more like a gradual, inevitable, but not terrible transition. Some even twitch, as if they’re wilThe Thin Reaper
I remember showing ainslee this place. Back when I had a different name.
you have a disembodied right hand because i had to erase background people and your palm was too close to them like usual
lovely gallery!!
your pieces are very cool
"spread love in
hug a random deviant "
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