Ripped clothes revealed playful, cheering, milk-white lumps, with curly, brown, circular endings. Along with their circular, up-down, left-right movements, the men’s heads started melting in an autonomous, repeated set of swings. Their own eyes began to circle like vultures around the ball rooms to feast with the sight of fleshy hops and prances.
Chandelier drops of light dripped into the eyes of the hectic, sweaty-to-the-bones, vortex people, blinding them like little moles digging deeper into the boiled ground. Frantic head shifts chucked light spears into the room, blinding the audience, who moaned full of gratification, pleasure and visual serenity. The vortex had grown, taking under its lap some of the drunk of desire, hypnotized audience. More sweat, more sparkling dust beating against the white, soft skin, entering every pore, suffocating it, creating another world of contrasts and unlike poles.
Like in a repeated sneeze, all turned into a spectacle of lies. With each change of direction and value, with each alteration of pencil pressure, used to create this canvas, the room gained a new crack, bigger and larger enough for a little person to be sucked into it. Each value added by the pencil, created a new lie, bathed in the placenta liquid of a God-like mind.
