Last night, an image of plain white satin shoes, with black spots of ink bleeding across the toes. It was awfully hot last night and sleeping was difficult. I was thinking of the things I should do, or wish I would do, and all the things that I am not. Suddenly these shoes appear. Their once-perfect white satin sullied by a formless smear. However I instantly like their ink decoration. I've always preferred clothes with paint smattered on them.These shoes are everything in my mind that hasn't yet come to be. They are the recognition and acceptance of messiness--the fruition of the creative violence I sometimes feel towards the expectation of perfection.
This is what I make of these shoes. Is it too much? Who knows? But that's what you get on a hot, humid and sleepless night.
