I just felt anchored. Crawling, prevented my hands, feet turned into crude. My head exploding in a fire worth Ron Howard in Blaze. The left leg arm embodying dignity as a last resort, the other my right, being responsible for the relatively immobile material, almost impassive and cold, sponsoring the dreaded unexpected return of a cane. So I was in the latest attack, a little less than a month.
This is reflected in this acrylic and organic furious, maybe even a little disproportionate, grotesque, but as real as the feeling that he did.
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