Drip, drip, drip. I look at my hands as I type. Peeling skin here and there, flecks of paint. There's art here, surely. Some thing baked into the minds of those fingers; my brain could be blank and still they'd find the tubes of paint, slather them onto the easel in the right proportions, mark the drops of colour where they should be.
But not the words. Words are hard.
Splash. A trickle.
Something's back.
A flood.
In this post-modern modernity, our identities are defined by the things we buy and the media we consume. A crisis of identity, fulled by templates that surround us. So is this me - Hank Moody in Californication, adrift in a sea of wine and women.
- Original prose by SHKM
