The snow looks like a storm of polka dots or a flurry of halftone spots, badly arranged. Once they hit the ground, they lose their individuality and become a beautifully smooth homogenous blanket that hides the unsightly drab of bare trees and brown foliage. Footprints are healed and like sand in a desert, the breeze sculpts soft undulating curves... poetic.
Hoarknockle has been looking after me, adding restorative extract to my tea.
I have decided to revisit the tin girl and bring more to her and her situation. She seemed too alone and without any motivation. She has been haunting me for a while (ghosts of Christmas passed out?) and I had to come back and see if I could help to complete her. Sketch added to the original and more to follow.
I was wondering about this girl...
I think she is typical of a species of girl named after foreign hotels. Lacking in nothing except for insides and mind. How desperate must this not be? How utterly lonely and empty. What do wind-up toys dream of? Can tin girls remove their underwear?
Who winds them up when they are run down?
The polka dots are intensifying, there is a winter storm warning out. I smell mutton stew from the kitchen.
Here comes Hoarknockle with some more restorative extract.
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