"An artist is always alone - if he is an artist. No, what the artist needs is loneliness. "
-Henry Miller
Saturday, June 23, 2012
“Lingering pleasures corrupt the mind,” the freckle covered man took a deep drag of his cancerous vice, dark eyes watching the fragile girl set before him.
“Get over it.” He pressed.
“What happens when we die?” She asked.
“Enslavement,” he paused, “Probably.”
The weak little girl barked a laugh and set her candlelit eyes dead straight, “I thought we were already slaves.”
The Star ascended and walked out of the bar.
“Get over it.” He pressed.
“What happens when we die?” She asked.
“Enslavement,” he paused, “Probably.”
The weak little girl barked a laugh and set her candlelit eyes dead straight, “I thought we were already slaves.”
The Star ascended and walked out of the bar.
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