This is an eye, a weary eye. For the artist is weary. He is, in fact, so weary that he even can't come across telling us why. So we let it be.
We're having a go at the old and well tried Dalinian trick of letting something turn into something else, textures and shapes come and go as they please. If they were sounds, they might go Schlurp, Schlop or even Meeeoww! -- You never know with the subconscious. The party is going on there in the cellar, and poor Forehead never was invited, R.S.V.P. (Moreover, you probably know that it is during these wild parties that our actual decisions are made. How much for rationality.) I also re-use my pattern from the work you haven't seen finished yet -- coming up next week, with all sound and fury! -- now you see it as the red, somewhere-between-circuits-and-veins below the sadly miscoloured whites of the eyes.
Last but not least -- guess for yourselves. Closing office soon, to join said party downstairs. Nighty-night!
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