Warhol

I tried to think of something to say about Warhol’s art, but I couldn’t think of anything. Instead, I wrote this little scene under one of his paintings.

Source: Wikipedia

A Romance II

[Leather couch creaks]
P: Doctor, I suffer from insomnia. I can’t sleep and when I’m awake I’m so tired I’m not really awake. My work suffers, my relationships suffer, and I think I might be losing my mind. I’m afraid to talk to people because I fear my words will come out as madness when I’m like this. And there’s this noise in my head.
D: Well, take drugs. That’s what everybody does.
P: I know, but I don’t want to do what everyone else does. I find the idea of drugs repulsive. It would make me something I’m not and substitute my true self with chemicals. I can’t lose that, my personality, my soul. However difficult this problem is, I still want to be me.
D: Do you realize that you have not uttered a single phrase without referring to yourself? Maybe you should get rid of your current true self. I think it is an absolute bore.
P: Sorry. Let’s try something else, then.
D: What do you want to do?
P: Can’t do anything, really. Too agitated to sleep, too tired to work or think. It’s hellish.
D: Come now, surely hell is worse than this.
P: I said ‘hellish’, mind the ‘ish’.
D: Ah, excuse me. You are not suicidal, are you?
P: No. Couldn’t be bothered.
D: Homicidal?
P: Don’t be silly.
D: Amorous?
P: I thought you’d never ask.
[Leather couch creaks]
[Kiss]
[Song of birds through an open window and fade]

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