Quaint & Pretty, Babe.

quaint-treehouse-4

I won’t snicker at the mention, but what is animation anyway? A composition of contending timbre, a function to illustrate a trumpet bleating? Gah. I take the air quality as a time signature. I watch television as a junky stoned on their product, licking dope remnants from a plastic bag as if I was a mother cleaning their pup of placenta. Mmm…stem cells, babe. Past is waning and the future constructs the likeliest of outcomes. In a world of dope fiends and singing clouds what sort of dreams are left? The kind that declare, “I’M SPECIAL!” Ah honey but you’re not. We’re human and humans are relentless beef, strutting the timeline like models on a catwalk. Meow, babe, meow. Wherein lies the counter woof, the omnipotent bark of god’s hounds? Well…they’re in Hell. Along with the song birds and other caged figures that remind us of solitude, quaint and pretty, babe, quaint and pretty.

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