Away from the soul, the dust of everyday life.
Art washes away.
From the soul, the dust of everyday life.
Art washes away from the soul.
The dust of everyday life.
Mainly, he consisted of elbows and knees. Freckles ranged all over his stringy arms and legs, which swiveled like they were connected by universal joints. His togs consisted of high-topped round-nosed red canvas toddler-style sneakers with rubber half-moon toes; an enormous, baggy green T-shirt loosely tucked into lime-green checkered polyesther trousers chopped off at the knees using a device similar to a lawnmower.
He could have been anywhere from 30 to 70 years old, either an eroded young fellow or a well-pickled sage.
He had no socks.
And what a curious balding pattern. Like lodged oats.
But the truly arresting thing was this: his T-SHIRT WAS STUFFED WITH BOOKS. About 30 hardbacks and paperbacks bulged out in all directions, belling out the midriff to an impressive degree, giving him the overall appearance of a large, jagged pear with legs. The corner of a slim volume stuck out above the neckline. Pippi Longstocking.
He was wearing his entire library!
Or at least his favorites.