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I eyed a different world yestereve. One that lies taut and damp with sweat over well used cartiledge-like muscle.  They threw shapes, and chucked rhomboids, they flung fluid formations and tossed a pretty profile. So aware of the constraints, or should that be, the lack of constraints to which this world applies to their honed and solid bodies. They had broken free from earthly everyday plod, to spring lamb-like. Divine expression of mind wrought not with pen or brush or voice or pluck but with this corporeal meat. A new expression, atleast to me, one which defies this cage of rational mind, one which revels long and languidly in true physical pigment.

No need for brushes here. They paint with sweat and light and ligaments. No need for typewriter or barrel bodied bass. These fuckers create naked, un-tooled, wordless works that disappear as quickly as they come, like mayflies in hot sun.

 

Cheers lia. X

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