The Dark Angels are a come and go crew. They create then disappear like street art. Their works exist in fragments, particles that float, dust motes that spin before the wind that blows them to faraway places. They are individuals that work as one. Deep as oceans, as impenetrable as the night. Art urchins and poets, they dissolve before they form. They are the Dark Angels, they are discharge. They are a bloody mouthful.
5 comments:
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I like that little drop on top of a finger
Exactly the drops make the difference
love it
could be a letter to ...someone
thank you Mersault and CHM!
Yes, could be a letter...
I love the fact that it elicited similar reactions. For me, the fingers themselves were the dripping shapes that told a story... or warned us...
Ah, we are all different. I see no letters... Letters are like love stories: they make us weak. The fingers are strange organic matter in an organic world that only recognises them as a fascinating imposition.
You have cute fingers, nevertheless.
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