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Fuck you. Just, fuck you.

I believe this was Oliver Rudkin mocking me. I am rather known for my fainting overcome effeminate men…haha.

I have got to that point where I am looking through really old scans, looking for anything that might help me let go of my creative frustration.

This is really only for my own satisfaction, this manor house is in Ealing, and it’s where some of the children of the only assassinated Prime Minister (Spencer Perceval) lived.

On the way to Pandora. He decided to be a pre-raphaelite model in a tree..

Please view large, or you might never be able to comprehend it.

A preview.

I really need to sew, or implode.

I have decided that McCann should get his own folder, he does love looking at himself..haha.

”..if I touched your face
with my little finger
doesn’t that
explain
more than any concatenation of words would explain
it’s like words are
getting from a-b-c
but not to d..”