I make love to Modernism in the back of a black cat museum. Then I dump him and deflower post modernism, which is a whore in rayon. After that the clouds follow me back and forth from home to the store. My clonopin can breathe on its own and has 20/20 vision I can only envy. I am sick to death of navel gazing and semi autonomous whispers. What comes after contemporary art? Is it fudge or shit? We put visionaries eyes out and toast to the promising future of the ambitious dark.
Miniature Moon 