I never met a man so unknowledgeable, I could not learn something from him.

I like the shapes that you can get sometimes working with the angles of various buildings. There are three separate buildings here, but one day I'd love to get six in one shot.

Last week I posted a little bit of prose that I constructed in a reasonably straightforward manner. As is my wont however, I applied my own theory of surrealistic realism to the piece and rewrote the bugger with that in mind:

Leaning back he transforms himself into a chair of dirty orange plastic that smells of neglect. Shattering his hands, the room waits. The light-tube mourning as his face develops for all to see. And expedition of eighty-seven is sent to investigate the mystery of his countenance. They map from east to west, recording all they see: eyeballs dripping sadness, nose launching itself from the landscape for easier access, cavernous mouth overflowing with small, white children standing out of line. This was the last we heard of them as he inhales the room, extracting his head and placing it onto his lap, twisting enough to see within. Dressed in lush green, the organ of sight (rods and cones intact) devours the object of desire. Meeting midway he opens himself up, jeopardising his flanks, tearing down the defensive wall; he proposes a treaty and offers a gift. Things appear advantageous, it could happen. He expands, higher and wider - reaching the sun and no-one can touch him. But wait. BANG! She pulls away and attacks. Punching, piercing, laughing and malignant; she leaves him there. Broken, defeated, a ruined city. One day someone will come across these blood-stained remains and ask "whatever could have happened here?"


Interestingly, my notion of surrealistic realism was later shamelessly stolen by that thieving French philosophe and intellectuelle païens Jean Baudrillard. The dastardly frog even went so far and invented a time-machine to fraudulently claim the notion as his own! Sacrebleu!