I’m Glad I’m a Lady, Because I Might Not Otherwise Have Learned To Braid / Maybe I’ll Look Back On This One Day and Smile, Slightly.

I always thought it was something. Here at the end I can only wish for something more tangible, as our timeline has split into yet another thin tangent: the prince, the pauper, the second after a forgotten dream, and so on. The space directly behind my forehead fills with a sort-of meta sorrow, forcing out existential expletives.

Extracting lessons from hardship mutates sorrow into sick joy, which settles into the space directly behind the space directly behind my forehead. Still shapeless, this lesson laces itself wherever it can and cannibalizes itself when necessary. It might also dissipate, shamefully, as happier times trot in. Which makes it meaningless.

For better or worse, I no longer have you living permanently among my influences. This is the good mourning.

A Triptych of Dead Writers with a Triptych of Epic Love Letters

I said I was going to draw a portrait of Kafka and pair it with a love letter, but decided that it would be so much better / creepier if I just went ahead and drew three. It’s an adorable matching set of great, dead writers! Huxley is creepy, Hemingway is stoic, and Kafka is mad sexy. (I took some liberties.) And, yes, I spilled coffee on Hemingway. Lets us just pretend that it’s rum. It’s fitting that way and it seems like something Hemingway would do, so it stays.

A love letter to Aldous Huxley:

I am continually fascinated by the manner in which you respond to the word ‘pneumatic’. I’m pretty sure I just called you a commodity, but since you don’t seem to mind, Imma keep on keepin’ on. Bring on the kink and don’t be stingy with the hallucinogens.

 

A love letter to Ernest Hemingway:

Great sex.

 

A love letter to Franz Kafka:

Eat something. Still nervosa vibrates from your fragile eyes and your words give away effortless pain. It would be a fittingly tragic conundrum to choose between your gift and your sanity. If I could choose for you, I wouldn’t. Either that or I would choose your gift, playfully flick the winged beasts that live on the sides of your head and say, “I know you’re sick, but seriously don’t burn anything.”

A partially found digital haiku for the ages. The ages.

Oooh, crystal geyser!

Also Clint Eastwood is there.

Talk death and so on.