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August 22, 2015
Humor, macabre with absurd embroideries, made for the guts like poisoned farts, spilling the room for gutteral chortles, a fine assemblage to greet the new rivers sewing paths of red and black onto costly rugs and marble tiles, a pollock mosaic, one to delight any fond artist equipped with the means to see beyond calumny and take pleasure in what might be offered to anyone with a like mind; such a mosaic, as one that gave the room a new name, blessing each fetid form rising with a new way to identify time geared not to tell, but to hide.