Thirty

Twenty-Nine

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Two

Twenty-One

Twenty

Nineteen

Creepy Silhouette Men

I woke a bit earlier than usual this morning, 7:15 or so. I looked across my room at my door and was unhappy to be confronted with a creepy apparition: it seemed that leaning against my door was one of those black painted wooden silhouette figures, a cowboy in fact (something I unfailingly associate with flea markets, a phenomenon I know next to nothing about). Anyway, I was creeped the fuck out, hid my face in a pillow and hoped he would leave. As phantasmagoria was replaced by consciousness I realized bit by bit that the figure was in fact my black robe (or dressing gown, as British period films would have it) hanging on its normal peg on my door. The shape was still remarkably like that of a creepy black wooden cow boy man.

As the minutes passed he seemed to shift a bit and the sense of being watched diminished. I seem to recall going through some elaborate dream sequence in my semi-conscious state, explaining who the fellow was, why he was chilling out in my corner, and what I had done to deserve such a thing. As those things so often are, the explanation was lost, just sort evaporated by the time I came to myself. I thought of making a comic about it, but was confronted with "how the hell do you make a comic about that?" so I remembered the other function of my blog, blogging. I no longer trust my robe, and I have never trusted flea markets, or people who think its a good idea to have a black painted wooden silhouette of a cowboy in any way associated with them, but at least it is all over now.

Eighteen

Sean: Is that a word?

Anima: Why not, it seems to mean.

Sean: Haha, you're cute. But ser's'ly, you have been

My only hope somedays. But now I see

More evidence of you outside of me.

Seventeen

Sixteen

Fifteen