affame_le_geant_bleed_for_art fyn gula puppertwinkle yawned. night had long fallen and by the light of a pregnant moon he listened to the sound of saumboo's snoring, regular as clockwork. the little dog, gold star twinkling upon his apple-shaped forehead, contemplated bedding down himself but knowing there were two packages left in the box yet unopened, he decided to fight the watering of his googly eyes and take a few more licks of the espresso in his water bowl. he dug out gift marked number three and matched it with the corresponding question on the box lid: "what will you bring with you?" of course, he desired saumboo's participation and consensus, that what he had done with feignez's wings was permissible, but he ultimately had to answer to boffden. he couldn't help but feel a zap of electric guilt. it sucks when one has to compromise friendship for obedience to a cause. yet, when revolution is at stake, love is sacrafice. besides, this stone man was asleep. you snooze, you lose, right? not really. puppertwinkle would show him the contents in the morning. i mean, when surprises are available, fucking jump on them. this little package was about the size of a cigar box and it was the one he wanted to open from the beginning, that is when he first opened the box because of the interesting wrapping paper. however, being marked three, he had to wait. sometimes waiting is good. (like when i got a mojo bar in the mail...i could have eaten it right there, but i waited until the next day at lunch. much better under a tree changing colors.) anyway, the very cool paper was collaged, an original work of art that puppertwinkle figured boffden must have done himself, or maybe this mysterious baeroun dude. he could tell someone had done it, i mean it wasn't like purchased at some swanky folio store in a trendy european shoppe because even though the entire package had been old school wheat-pasted (pasted!...hmmm. pasted! is this when paste! posts?) the edges were lifting from the passage of time. shit happens. oh well. it was still amazing, especially because of the imagery. it startled puppertwinkle like most things do. he started shaking, trembling like the aspen leaves under the moonlight. what about it you wonder made him tremble? well, it was a collage of fotos. frau werzenwozen in the early days when she was all into it, beautiful in her kenneth cole black-framed glasses, wispy hair falling out of her once tight bun, leading the spegnere and the wooden cart along the bianca starda. saumboo, not yet stone, full of excitement and alacrity. and the little dog himself in various hero-type poses with the tulip, dandelion, and his good friends, the human flower chorus. all the poses were various and captured candid as if the photographer was surreptitious. as if to create something new, he had to learn to forget. and when someone asked him how he became such an amzing artist, he would act all demure, take a sip from a pesca yoga, after first offering the interviewer one, and say, "i think i was a photographer even before knowing there was such a thing as a camera." you would think the collage would be systematic, but it wasn't, not even slightly. there were black and white, color, and sepia pictures with perfect grain and lighting and just the right and proper mix of verbal statements in unbelievable fonts. ("you can't recreate the times you never had." was one of them) it was thought they were produced, when actually it was the photographer who had done them up free-hand and painstakingly so. why do you think he wears one red bead on his turquoise bracelet? fucking blood. you have to bleed for art's sake. and so, there was puppertwinkle hypnotically studying the package, looking much like the famous RCA dog enraptured by the music coming out of the gramaphone. but here, there was no sound but saumboo's snoring and frau werzenwozen's somnolent utterances in delicately phrased german. and somehow it became a lullabye. along with the dreamy, elgiac wistfulness of his remembrance of things past, puppertwinkle fell asleep right on top of the collaged package, still unopened. 021008 what's it to you? who go blather from