I had a sketchbook once…
Some twenty pages of blank areas; waiting to taste your insanity.
I used to paint green skies…black trees…blue huts… yellow waters…
Everything escaping the twisted reality.
I had ignorant afternoons once…
nothing to be passed through rotten trivialities.
Only a window…some people I could never merge into and that sketchbook.
Then I was given to an artistic dictator…
My painting teacher.
The first thing he did was tearing down my paper dreams…
I could see my sketchbook floating away from me taking some flesh of my mind.
I was getting trained…I was getting ready to be an isolated masochist…
But I could never be intimate with those colours again.
The intercourses still happen inside a wooden hole. You see in art only the victims get convicted for the shining murders.

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Photograph: Google.

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