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  • Maybe I’ll look better today than I did yesterday.
  • Oooh. No. Maybe not.
  • I need more makeup.
  • I need less makeup.
  • Oh, right. It’s my face.
  • Mirror.
  • Tanktop?
  • Why do I have bangs?
  • Why do I have hair?
  • Ponytail.
  • Mirror.
  • Smile.
  • C’mon, smile.  It’s not hard.
  • Oh, missed a spot.  More makeup.
  • Phew. Okay. Time to go.
  • Wow, that girl’s pretty.  And her.  Aaaaand her.
  • And her.
  • Pretty girls have so much motivation.
  • Him. Coffee.
  • Look at him.  Wow.  Why is he smiling?
  • No no no please don’t look at me. 
  • GAH. He’s looking. Stop looking. He looks so good.
  • Smile. You can do it. There you go.
  • Maybe if you keep your head down, no one will notice how much makeup you’re wearing. Or how little makeup.  It is coming off?
  • Mirror.
  • Retouch.
  • Ugh, my arms. Good thing I wore long sleeves.
  • Look at her.  God.  Her hair. Her face.  Who did she sell her soul to?
  • Look at me.  How do I get in on that deal?
  • I’m wearing too much makeup.
  • Mirror.
  • Smile.  C’mon.  It’s not that hard.

Every note sounded wrong. 
He’d mastered every scale and could glide over each arpeggio with his fingertips so light and liberated, yet there was no combination, no tempo, no sharp or flat or natural that could turn his collection of perfect tones into beauty.
He didn’t understand.
“Song for Sarah” had come to him so easily 3 years ago.  The composition captured her essence so perfectly that he could ephemerally feel the warmth of her lips against his temple each time that he caught a glimpse of the handwritten sheet music peeking out from underneath stacks of wrinkled pages.

“Song for Annika” was another success. Black keys and white keys.  Coffee and snow.  Her hair and her skin.  Whenever he revisited the melody, he could still taste the warm bitterness.

“Song for Eve” still made him blush when he played it at recitals.  He was very proud of the piece and proud of himself, but he hoped that the audience would assume that he was only sweating because his black suit made him hot under the stage lights.

“Song for Ingrid” sounded like a promise, according to her.  It had been sitting under his bed for a while now.

But this time was different.
“Song for Charlotte.”
He had written the title on the top of the page, like he always did, in the same blue ink that always stained his hands and smudged his love notes.
The quarters and eighths and sixteenths were there, small and rigid and arranged carefully by dextrous hands.
But the notes were not Charlotte.
Perhaps she was just too indescribable to capture with music.
He knew that was not the reason.

An essence of silence circulated throughout the room as he sat on the piano bench and closed his eyes.  He could hear the autumn breeze blowing outside.  The way that it rustled the leaves on each imperfect tree and whistled between the bricks in the damp alleyway created a subtle, beautiful harmony that yearned to reach the ears of no one.

I shall go on shining as a brilliantly meaningless figure in a meaningless world.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned (via teenager90s)

(via man-of-prose)

Beatles-y type guy for a Beatles-y type night.

Preliminaries for my next project!


(So, I’m currently taking a Creative Writing class and I’m planning on putting some of my work on tumblr, as it might inspire my artwork and my idea flow. Here’s my first piece so far.)

It was two in the afternoon and He was on his daily walk.  He shuddered as the wind whipped by and zipped his coat up to the collar before digging his fists deep into his pockets.  These maneuvers were of no use; the cold that time of year was not so much brutal as it was swift, and the parched air moved past Him as if it were rushing to a meeting or chasing a desire.  The weather did not stop Him though, as his daily walk had grown to be less of a habit and more of a necessity.  

He had left Her back at their house.  

She had told him that She was making dinner, and that She forgot to call the electrician, and that She was unhappy with her new haircut, and that She loved him.  He knew that He had listened to Her, but could not remember what his responses were, or if He had even responded at all.  

After She was done speaking, He went for his walk.

He had taken his normal route, and was therefore making his way towards the small bridge on the outskirts of his neighborhood. The bridge was short in length but rose high  above the river and rested on an assemblage of old wooden posts.  He always quickened his pace when walking under it.  He disliked the rickety condition of the bridge and his nose crinkled each time the smell of algae and fish rose from the water.  However, as He was passing under on that day, He was startled by a sound. It was not quite a splash, but simply the sound of water shifting; perhaps if the wind was blowing he might not have heard it. 
But all was quiet, and He turned his head.

There was something emerging from the water.  He could not speculate its size; it was close enough to see, but its appearance seemed to avoid comprehension altogether. It was a pale creature with feminine features and dirty dark hair, and it was grasping tightly onto a wooden pole with small webbed hands. The creature had wide, glistening eyes that were not so much dark as they were deep, and as He stood frozen in place, He could not help but to stare into them.  

And suddenly, his mind became awake.
He looked into the eyes and saw mystery.  He saw desires and adventures, He saw stories waiting to be told and untold again, He saw the faces of people He had never met and places He had never been.  He saw roiling seas and rolling plains.  He saw crowds of people and empty street corners. He saw the sun and the moon, and He saw the sky in a way that He had never envisioned when He had stargazed with Her.  He saw pleasure and pain and emotions that had not existed to Him in years.  He saw himself, even though He could barely recognize it.  And for the first time in his life, He felt his heart beating and his eyes watering and his lungs filling with damp air.
And then suddenly, the creature broke its gaze and darted back into the water.

He was left on the bank, with tears rolling down his cheeks and his chest heaving. After a few silent moments, He regained his awareness and realized where He was. He could not stay under the bridge.  The traces of adrenaline left in his system forced him to hurry away, back on the path he had came, back to his street, back to his doorstep, back to his living room, back to Her in the dining room.
But as he set foot in his house, it all went away.
She looked up at Him and smiled.  He stared at her face.
Her eyes were blue.

Quick typography-ish doodles to relieve tensions. :)
Let’s Go Fly a Kite.

Sketches/doodles from the Met and MoMA. They are awesome places. I like them.


The life of an artist. 

(via pandamani)