Makeup Artist, Male Objects, Miami

There's a divine punishment, it seems, for divine beings—it is artists I speak of. The eyes, they see through the pasteboard mask of life, but there's a price—they say there's always a price in this city, but some things cannot be reduced to "sold" or "bought." The same artist eyes that make the world up from the ether, turn it around in its chair to gaze at its own contour, liner, blush (by the artist applied)—this same artist must make her way through an unbeautified world, through a city that doesn't give a damn. Miami, the city that doesn't give a damn—then let it flood!' Let its unaffected men pretend to be cool and unaffected when mother Earth drowns them in tears and chokes their lies with salt in their dishonest throats. I curse disaffection, give my soul opulence and keep your material medley of tin can boys—hollow and bent! Fill this sacred landscape with the water of love, we will make up not only our minds, but our spirits, our times, and all else with love!