Thursday, July 8, 2010

The slow, steady decline into autobiography

I had a dream about overly-friendly hobos, alternate dimension reality TV shows, bad tattoos and fisting last night. The machinations of my subconscious grow both more intriguing and repulsive by the second (to me at least).

Now, on an unrelated note, here is the only piece of art in this post. It was made in a mad rush a couple of weeks ago for a friend's farewell and is approximately 6cm high. I've also realised it's the only thing I have to show for the past couple of weeks and this upsets me greatly.
(It's meant to be a mouth.)

The following images, however, do not upset me at all. For your viewing pleasure I now present the spine of the world's most hilariously titled book (as found by a certain someone who totally didn't ask to be credited), the contents of my bin covered in waste toner and a very creepy antique shop rocking horse.



I'm pretty sure I could hear its mournful whinnying when my back was turned.

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