How To Use Motor For A Cake

SILHOUETTES (Part IV)

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thought creeps in again subject distance. Obsession night without stars in the window. On the background of a dirty-gray tree silhouettes. My focus in the dark ... So hard at night, do not draw. Presented itself Monet, no matter what the picture is? Probably, water lilies and black ... the snow. Where the snow? Its cause there. There are just feeling it, lying in another country. Country, two-tone. Country winter. Getting out of the brush sketch. Name? Let it be "Breakfast at the moon." I drink tea, and further imagine. ... Your silhouette in a shiny gloss dark. Standard: makiatto and brioche spread with chocolate. Love - Look at you - narrator dies. Dumb euphoria, and the words, as the legs with cotton are in a dream, brings dispersed soul. You eat. And I'm black lily paint - nostalgia. I ask: "How do you like me now? Truly? "In an imaginary picture, you smile and all ... lips:" Siilno. Brush falls from the hands of an artist on the tablecloth. In the brioche crumbs from my face, your face. Quite simple - to live, when the saucer glares silhouette of the moon and sun. We recorded in the mirror substrates. Suddenly emerged as a grandfather over breakfast prevented Indian tea so loudly that the sound of china filled the entire house. Until all the sugar has melted, he interferes with and prevents ... In my opinion it is stored, the romance-pilot in the cockpit-kitchen aircraft. Now the sky haunting my pupil, from his grandfather, pilot watches over me now. View from above: Ligurian exhaust, country boots, balcony and two. Two and a silhouette portrait: hand in hand, back to back, everything else on the canvas - the dawn. "Sugary melodrama "- thought to now, the poet, in Venice navedyvatsya ezhezimno. On the waterfront incurable walking silhouette of a man. In season - without the tourist make-up. One. Without consequence and without cause - happy. Caught in the palazzo. At night stazione exhales stanzas. Push off from the quay of the city of gondolas. Back. By the shore of Varazze. White Clay Hotel, second floor window, which is strange, without wings, shutters. Balcony. Your hand in my hand, you feel my toes - a product of bias tennis. Intuitively, the polarity: on the gravel of the summer I forgetting, you absorb from the screen face "Grand Slam". Two dummy on the floor of immobility. Neighbors heard. The third consecutive day in the hotel, they watch TV. Two dummy third day, do not sleep on the porch balcony breathe breeze. Frozen sea in front, at low tide marble hung. Easel swayed, jumped on canvas, the artist completed the painting. Lay his hand without feeling - in a happy bliss dancer.
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The Silhouettes (part IV)

The thought again is creeping in the theme of distance. Obsessive starless night is in the window. The silhouettes of trees are on a dirty-gray background. All my attention has drowned deeply in the darkness ... It is so hard at night to sleep and not to write - the pictures. I have imagined that I am Monet, what would the picture look like? Probably, it would be black, yes, black water lilies  ... and the snow. Why snow? There is no snow. But there is inside a crunching feeling and memory of it that lies right now in distant country. Two-colored country. Winter Country. A sketch is getting out of the brush. How do I name the picture? Let it be - "Breakfast. Under the moon". I’m drinking tea, and further goes imagination. Your silhouette ... in the temptation of glossy darkness. As usual: brioche and macchiatto, I would spread chocolate on it or butter. I love to look at you - narrator dies. Dumb euphoria, all of the words somehow somewhere disappear, as often legs become like cotton in the nightdreams. You are eating. And I am painting black water lilies - nostalgia. I’m asking: "How do you love me? For real? " In the unreal context your lips are saying:" Strongly”. The brush falls down from the artist’s hands, onto the tablecloth. My face, your face is all in brioche crumbs. It’s quite simple to live right now… when in a saucer the silhouettes of moon and sun are flaring. We are reflected in the mirror spoons. Then.. suddenly my memory recalls the scene: my granddad is stirring his tea over the breakfast, so loudly that ding-dong sound of porcelain fulfills the ears and the house. He is continuing to stir it until the sugar melts in water ... His glance is stored in me, the glance of romance-pilot in the cockpit of the kitchen aircraft. My pupil now is haunting in the sky, from where granddad-pilot observes me since he died. A plan view drawing: the Sea Ligurian, a boot - shaped peninsula , a balcony and a couple. The two silhouettes are in a portrait: hand in hand, back to back, everything else that is on the canvas is the dawn. "Mawkish melodrama" – that’s what the poet now would think, the poet who used to visit Venice every winter.  A lonely silhouette of him is walking on the Fondamenta degli Incurabili. He comes before the Christmas, when there is no tourist make-up. Alone. Without consequence and without cause – he feels the happiness once in a year, surrounded by the palazzo everywhere. At night stazione he creates his stanzas. I am moving off the quay with beautiful gondolas. I am back, I am in Varazze. The white hotel, the window in the second floor, which is untypical and strange, without shutters-wings. The balcony. Your hand is in my hand, you feel my calluses - a product of my tennis passion. A visible polarity: I fly on gravel courts, you usually absorb the "Grand Slam" on TV screen. Two dummies are on the floor without motions. The neighbors are heard around. Unbelievably they spend the third day in the room, with TV on. As for the dummies, three days they are not sleeping, they have been sitting on the balcony and breathing. The sea in front is frozen as marble. The easel swayed, the canvas shivered, the painting has been completed. The artist’s hand is laying feelingless – like ballerina in a happy bliss.