2
由 APEP
由 APEP
A series of characters from the neck-up.
The Priest always made sure to visit Hamley's in the lead up to Christmas. He would take a flask of homemade hot chocolate, topped up with a firm glug of whiskey off the top shelf, and find the red bench that had been next to the soft toy area for as long as he could remember. The kids would fly in all evening and lose themselves amongst all the year's latest and greatest gadgets, as displayed by the talented workers who seemed somewhat destined to fly drones for a living in small enclosed spaces. He wasn't there for the kids though, he was there to catch up with Mrs. Squiggles.
Mrs. Squiggles had been left at the bottom of the bear display since almost when the store was opened, and not once had anyone looked to pick her up to take her home. The Priest had struck up quite a friendship with Mrs. Squiggles, and she'd helped him find forgiveness from the Lord on many occasion when he had no one else to turn to.
The years rolled by; the intermittent conversation between the two of them spanned five decades. Until one year when it came to an abrupt end. Mr Priest had found love on holiday in Bermuda, and the thought of meeting Mrs. Squiggles again never once crossed his mind. Fortunately, she was a very forgiving character, and settled back into a life of dejection and poor lighting.
Impenetrable things floating round my head
A collection of experiments created with 2D and 3D softwares, accompanied with sound.
wEIRD CHARACTERS, eerie meetings on street corners, nasal prostates and globular traffic pushed to the side of the road so people can get to work on time. Meanwhile, up on U8i9-ppL, the benevolent and immutable Roger the Beatnik retraces his steps, hoping to find the microphone he lost when he landed. Flies gather on the carcass. Its belly writhes with the expectation to explode. It's going to smell terrific.
Divorcing the unnatural to reek wonders with happiness bound in jelly and fudge
Fingers of sugar walking down to the yard and why must you all fidget under the tables you cowards must look and wonder where are all the stars they’re not on the floor you floundrelling flummusks they need to wake down and up through the rotten canvas I buried my cat under on Wednesday night it was a full moon and she said it was the right thing to do
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The Priest
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APEP
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由 APEP
由 APEP
A series of characters from the neck-up.
The Priest always made sure to visit Hamley's in the lead up to Christmas. He would take a flask of homemade hot chocolate, topped up with a firm glug of whiskey off the top shelf, and find the red bench that had been next to the soft toy area for as long as he could remember. The kids would fly in all evening and lose themselves amongst all the year's latest and greatest gadgets, as displayed by the talented workers who seemed somewhat destined to fly drones for a living in small enclosed spaces. He wasn't there for the kids though, he was there to catch up with Mrs. Squiggles.
Mrs. Squiggles had been left at the bottom of the bear display since almost when the store was opened, and not once had anyone looked to pick her up to take her home. The Priest had struck up quite a friendship with Mrs. Squiggles, and she'd helped him find forgiveness from the Lord on many occasion when he had no one else to turn to.
The years rolled by; the intermittent conversation between the two of them spanned five decades. Until one year when it came to an abrupt end. Mr Priest had found love on holiday in Bermuda, and the thought of meeting Mrs. Squiggles again never once crossed his mind. Fortunately, she was a very forgiving character, and settled back into a life of dejection and poor lighting.
Impenetrable things floating round my head
A collection of experiments created with 2D and 3D softwares, accompanied with sound.
wEIRD CHARACTERS, eerie meetings on street corners, nasal prostates and globular traffic pushed to the side of the road so people can get to work on time. Meanwhile, up on U8i9-ppL, the benevolent and immutable Roger the Beatnik retraces his steps, hoping to find the microphone he lost when he landed. Flies gather on the carcass. Its belly writhes with the expectation to explode. It's going to smell terrific.
Divorcing the unnatural to reek wonders with happiness bound in jelly and fudge
Fingers of sugar walking down to the yard and why must you all fidget under the tables you cowards must look and wonder where are all the stars they’re not on the floor you floundrelling flummusks they need to wake down and up through the rotten canvas I buried my cat under on Wednesday night it was a full moon and she said it was the right thing to do
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