Out of the pain that no one else can feel is disappointment evident in his face.
He has a face that no one would choose but it becomes him.
He carries the baggage of many years on his back. Without this weight he would be a different man, still unhappy, but without anything to complain about.
This dog’s jaws are bigger than ever. The cat he chews is as thin as a wire.
Like eyes eye alike. Nose to nose, ear to ear, facing faces overlap.
He’s a product of his environment That is, he’s screwed.
Owls can turn their heads 270 degrees, but you gotta love that opposable thumb and mental agility easily exceeds anything the most flexible cat can manage.
They face their own face and fail to recognize it. None of them will ever be so wrinkled, or stinky, or stooped. None of them in the crowd is as nameless as the others.
She finds what she looks for after considerable contortion. The jewel of her identity shines for no one else to see.
He sees in his beloved’s eyes a reflection of his fantasies. He never would describe or even mention his desires, but the casual observer can easily guess them.
He didn’t know where his fears came from, whether from a memory of trauma or some kind of conditioned reflex. A study of nerve signals of a pianist showed signals didn’t reach the brain but ended at the spinal column. A friend once gleefully attributed his impulses to his reptile brain. He only wanted to understand himself.
Everyone’s following him, recording his private conversations, and taking photos of him using high-power cameras. They pretend to be friends or innocent bystanders. They try to disguise themselves, but he sees through their masquerades. He’s no dummy. Even his so-called friends turn out to be villains, so they certainly can’t dissuade him.
He enjoyed thinking he was only a head sitting on a squash-like neck. He knew that arms and legs were attached somehow, and he knew that whatever he ate was eventually eliminated below, but he didn’t enjoy thinking of the articulations of his appendages or the biology of his nether regions. The only thing in the bathroom mirror that he focused on was his face.
When she was young, her figure was like a violin. She didn’t need a corset to realize a narrow waist. Her attractiveness wasn’t forced; her self-esteem wasn’t dependent on artificial support. Only in middle age did she realize the foolishness of putting her trust and hopes in things that never last.
In dreams of being helpless and naked, large faces with disarrayed features loom. No degree of alarm will awaken us.
The devil in her outlines a painful and contorted path. We see neither the start or end of it. Being incomplete dominates her figure.
The reassurances of a madman or the mad ravings of a priest promise never to destroy again if certain demands are met. In the darkness, a sane person may see the monsters of a psychotic, but these dissolve like tule fog when the warm sun shines brightly.
You may not approve, but a body has a face. It sees, it smells, it smiles, and it communicates.
Here is a self portrait with wings. We have shaped our ample body like a beetle whose elytra and wings fly like coat tails or the tail of a kite. We are pink like spring or a newborn child. Our arms are raised to show we care.
We know the actor wears a mask, but his sincerity, nevertheless, convinced us.
A hummingbird appears beyond the window screen composed of tiny squares of feather, beak, and blur.
Thoughts of Klee