We see the artist is lost in fragments. She sits on bare floorboards, surrounded by shards of broken mirror, cut up poetry and painted [interrupted] images of mandalas. Only the back of her head is visible while she chooses her face. The pieces, of course, could be put together in any number of configurations and all would be pleasing [disgusting] to her in some way.

A mattress soaked with sweat. Beads. Blood. An ashtray. A bottle of vodka, a quarter left. A kaleidoscopic memory of self.

She remembers the hanged man, now. We know this because of the tilt of her head and the slight tremor in her fingertips as they hover over a handwritten note. The weapon in this case is the pen; the saviour the scrubbing out.

The artist yawns. Drops the note and reaches for red thread, which she promptly rips with her teeth. Starts stitching glass.

The machine will have to wait.

Inspired by Roberto Bolaño’s Antwerp and Tres.

Header Image Credit: Patel Szvmanski via Unsplash

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