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.”
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