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    Яαgιи Яαvєи
    Cairo, Egypt
    Wanting people to listen, you can't just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer, and then you'll notice you've got their strict attention.
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Your Still Life Painting


Last night I was Loran Speck's Onion. Tonight I am Warren Criswell's Still life with Keys. It's a shame how people misinterpret still life paintings really. Art painting fanatics often refer to it as the silent form of art, the still life. Recently, neo-fanatic's preferences went for other styles of paintings. Ones where they know that there must be a hidden message stuffed in there behind the Monalisa smile, behind the burning giraffe, or behind the proud nudist. The renaissance era didn't help provide moral support to the still life either; however, it's becoming worse today. The still life form isn't really the artist's unique interpretation of their surrounding environment as it was decades ago. It's a shame really. They say it's too boring to be observed. We used to be special!!

Some people believe that their walls can hear their drunken laughter, that their rocking chairs can feel the rebelling conscience and the feeling of guilt, that their empty beds can feel the absence of lust. Some people believe that their locked closets can hear their screams. And If that is all true, if all the cold and breathless domestics that we own know that much about us, then why wouldn't it be possible for a still life painting to know as much; to stare at them with its glittering eyes in silence.

I'm six years old. I'm tall and square shaped. I look more like an old men's room sink with a wallet, keys, some coins, and a roll of toilet paper on the side. I'll have to assume that I was where someone once washed his hands cleaned out of his life possessions, took one final look at himself in the mirror, then walked out of the life he was addicted to once. The materialistic life he once led. How sadly, ironic. Tonight I represent the truth about life. An image of a man who regained his soul, his freedom from material. I am supposed to make a statement, the most important of them all, that money and keys aren't what life is all about. My price tag said $20,000 at some gallery last year in Paris, that only rich people attended.

Tonight, I'm hanging on a sky blue wall, in the middle of a dim lit room. Last night, the walls were pink. Oh I hate pink. Pink is a chick color. Last night, I was hanging in the middle of some politician's hall as he was conspiring against the "republic". Alone, sitting in his rocking chair, with his cool cigar and his Godfather stare. He raged in silence. He turned to me last night and said, 'It's us against them, my tear leaking friend. Like it's always been.' I was a happy Onion for ten minutes there when I heard him make his long speech filled with bio-supplemental words like rebellion and bitch and reinstatement and betrayal and quoting the likes of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Paranoia in its prime. Loran would have been so proud. Today it's different though. I got lucky. The lesbian couple sweating and moaning behind the back of the couch were probably one of the finest moments in still life history. The keys rattled around inside of me and the toilet paper roll wasn't really long enough. If only I had been hanging on the wall at the other end of the room. If only I had legs. If only I was a lesbian. If only… the two saddest words

Tomorrow… I'll be your recycled paper. Still life in its finest.

fuck i just saw this post doesn't have any comments and i really had to write something
i guess nobody wishes to be a lesbian or a still life painting fuck it
so here's the coment

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