Last Night Pictures

A scared animal walks down the street. Closed warehouses, a full restaurant at the corner. People standing and chatting. Voices. A man. A whisper. The cement is hard and warm. The animal walks fast. She goes in. Faces turn. She's overwhelmed by the number of people. Their voices, their voices are not subtle. Those are happy people, you know. They dress nice and they remind me of clothes that you take out of the dryer. But, not. They don't remind me of anything that resembles cozy. They are foreign. I can't see my childhood reflected in that. They eat well and their past-times are fancy. Even the way they argue is fancy and refined.

These people. They are. They are the ones that talk about Art. They stand there and look and talk and laugh. They eat those fancy mini-things and they toast with free wine. Some of them smell like lavender. The are beautiful and curvy and their hair is always put and ready. And they always have their nails done. they don't speak the language well, but that suits them since they have so much going for them.

The animal walks around for five minutes. Gets offered some food, but she refuses to get any. She wants to look at the art. She wants to see the moth and the girl. Because somehow her heart feels something when she sees that girl hanging attached-almost-desperate-chasing-light. Maybe she thinks about the times she has been chasing the light of happiness, the light of love, the light of hope. Until she finally was desperate chasing the light of life. The animal chases the painting in a crowded room with the same passion. The last painting she sees - after seeing a mix of blood, Modrian, Matisse, Picasso with perfect breasts and high heels, the animal finds her painting. She leaves, and the street is again this dark hole with big teeth - ready to engulf her. But she clings to that thing called light of life.