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Such softness, it's abject. Saccharine. Like walking around with cotton candy between toes, sugary resolve to true grit. Till your teeth fall out your head. But their softness something of a ruse, a narrative lacking definition. So that the man who looks like burnt matchsticks and the angel who provides his splayed toe ecstasy in an embrace too ambiguous for the smile he beams. Everything we see in the paintings based on expectation, that we recognize an angel at all. Low resolution.
