*** 三 小 的 唬 爛 人 生 ***

Future. Corpse. Air-conditioned.

She came down from the street and revealed her bare belly in the cold wind. Intestine, beef and tofu.

Unrealistic goals. Misuse of trust. An empty flat.

He used to tell her how beautiful she was and stick layers of rock band stickers above the plate of his car. He used to throw things around and pretend they didn't matter until the next time he had to use them again. They used to wake up next to each other.
Winter used to be really cold out there.

Art. Market. Wall street. Promotion and campaign.

Snapshots of skyscrapers. Blown flags of the Union. Trash of usable items. Oilly pizzas and sun dried Mexicans. "Can I have a receipt please?" Traffic. Expensive coats. Heavy labors. Streched hopes and elongated despair. We don't belong here, Mr. doorman. Tour of concerts. Amber beer bottles. Art art art art art. Galleries and museum stores. Labeled you and me.

Copulation and mutiplication of artists.
"Hi, how are you?" "Hi, how are you?" "Hi, how are you?" "Hi, how are you?" "This is my recent work."
"Hi, how are you?"
"Fantastic!" "How are you?"
"How are you?"
"This is my recent work."
"My recent work."
"Fantastic!"
"This is my recent work."

Buy me.
Warm gun. Pins. Scraps of paper.


Time doesn't matter anymore.

Numbers are given to everyone. We are all well behaved. Stay in line.