century old storefront

he's addicted to this ink, these pencil lines and the rough surface of paper. those clean contours and messy colours blurting in and out of lines, making him feel all sorts of things. he joined this world when he first felt his heart beat in and out of graphic novels and silk screen workshops and recycled paper projects and after a few years of practice and various forms of training he felt somewhat like he belonged. black and white photography and abstract angles and paper mache for grown ups he found out all kinds of new stuff about himself. the world blossoming and opening up to him, like a flower (fashioned from felt) or a tree (made out of newspaper folded and folded). everything is accessible and fashionable when he takes it to his room and with paste and thread and cut up collage he coaxes the beauty out of the ugly, he draws out the meaning from behind the folds in the curtains. it's so cool to meet friends with the same interests as yours. and he meets marla who uses mixed media to try to save the world and ned who has paper cuts all over his hands from his cutting and his pasting, threads of glue stuck to his wrists and eyelashes.
but he is starting to see the world in materials; that women's bag could be reconstructed with newspaper or that man's hat could be redesigned with paper mache and string. that building could be cardboard and blue paint, flannel pajama curtains in the little tiny windows and strawberry carton balconies for the little tiny people to sit and smoke on.
there are always new people to see, people to see, the work of so many people to see and what does he think? he must be honest, always honest. projects and producing, the constant creative cycle to produce, to be productive. marla comes in with her work in a frame and he says 'marla why are your arms made out of wood? why is your hair wool? marla what are you?' he runs onto the street and the sky is cellophane, wrinkling and writhing over cotton ball clouds, swaying above the metalwork trees with their sculpted faces twisted still and screaming. the people run by in their glass and copper clothes over the fiberglass streets. bewildered he looks down at his body that is acrylic on canvas and thus he understands that in his search for artistic inspiration he constructed the whole goddamn world as a mixed media on the universe. sadly he turned back inside and remembered the world when it was already beautiful.