"Pseudo, you are my first. My first without a sketch. Without a pre-plan. Without meditation."
Cold beer. Hot afternoon. Window open. Neck turned upside down. Looking backwards. Legs, used, they have been running. Hand that shakes, it felt, it is bleeding, but it wants to paint.
This is how I see you Pseudo: like a man that emerges in a suit with blue lines. Lines that are geometrical. This man is covered by leaves everywhere. And green. And deep blue and elongated. See through bubbles of air. Falling diagonally. A butterfly farm at its earliest stage.
"Where they grow, them butterflies. You are from there"
And feet perhaps. With a tatooed black man. Urban, overimpossed on green man pseudo. You are all on the verge of disaster. But evolving. Organically through. Limping as bisquits in candle light. And growing in tress under sun light.
Pseudo can evolve in a different direction. It can and will go higher. It will increase pulsations. And bring them high. And create emotion. And emote. With the shapes of angles and with angles in shapes. And together for a family affair. I am there concerned about giving it a face. And can be a live that is bright, in trees and lines.
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