The Atrophy of Art
The artist’s hand in decline, limp as a flaccid penis. Two women swirl his thoughts: one young, one old. He knows the young’s breasts will push his art forward. If he abandons the old, he will be haunted by the guilt of abandoning a life partner. Is it best for the artist to honor creation or to be loyal to a woman with the stink of approaching death? He decides his art must not suffer through this atrophic spasm. The artist’s pulse quickens. He invites the young woman into his boudoir. The door closes. His hand, now engorged with blood, paints with the spasmodic flurries of a boy.