These are the bloody table legs holding up a top I have unaccountably sat under for as long as my boney ass remembers.
They aren't too aesthetically advanced but the thigh to toe
They aren't anything special or fancy, merely aesthetically pleasing but the form that carries from the toes to the thighs have suspectibly embedded behind and before my eyes.
These bare wooden legs hold the foundation to this life's creative ambition.
Or some shit, anyway..
The cube thighs, bowling pin calves and rings. Pasty, poorly varnished timber. Forever I'll stay lured by the opportunity of how much more advanced they could have carved you.
I can see you now underlye the plays of my pen, preventing enrichment by the bore and misfortune I was forced to endure every time I ate dinner.
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