A languid tongue face lick! That’s what I’d have given that woman had I been in Rox’s place. As she was so closely shoved in their bosoms that it was beyond embrace.
A man standing on his head on the beach with legs spread up – “Ce frumooos, ca o floricica!” – is NOT a flower. In spite of the apparent anatomically correct disposition of parts.
Fingerblushing through his hair. One should’ve got to her on the spot. There, in the dust of time. But then again, maybe he did, just there. The venalia of fingerprints chem-changing their blood to and fro in that simple gesture between them.
The damnation is in the hand of the painter then (and the dogmatic norms of representation). No surprise. But then that’s where my aesthetic preference lies. In the smears of paint and overlapping of forms, intrusions. The transgressive forms in Gerhard Richter. But isn’t that more human?
I handbrush a car, a Volks, no shine, so cool! Watch out boys!, there’s a new mat in town – the New Orleans finish! The abouttogorustymust! (prespălat like the jeans) What you don’t wanna start, the rain will definitely finish!!! hahahahhahahaha!
Hugged for long with Erica (the actors made us 🙂 ) – a lovely girl a coté – lived in Ldn, just moved to Paris. Kept taking notes hiding away in her diary. Curvy but sexy. 27ish. Jeans cut mid-thigh with black embroidery in-threaded partly covering the cut. Open face. Not so much body posture way tho. Pitty 🙂
Trees to reshape your imagination. Both of us branching gaze and breath, hands and steps through their gigantic intricate stories. Antropoforming emotions, dramas and passions. Tragedies. Venalities.