the merc, repurposed

The artwork here feels alive. The fingers represented on the swirling canvas do not hold actual shape of bodies, but are somehow completely clear in their portrayal of dancing couples. The paint itself holds motion and change. It feels like a jungle here, particularly tonight. There is a thick steam pouring from the house locking the building in a haze. Everyone looks unfamiliar, which mocks the fact that I didn't want to do this tonight anyway, and I refuse to explain to myself why. I love the art and mural of untamed plant life, but for some reason i would really like to see that whole room painted white. What would the art do? Do these walls provide inspiration? Do the lights feed the poetry like translucent veins of warmth or do we simply like feeling like stars? artists? the higher selves? "Huzzah!" someone calls out. I disagree. We never seem to agree anymore, but it keeps my own solid entity. The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me.