Poor thing. It doesn’t know how to Elephant anymore (if it ever knew, we can't remember now) and hence its botchered name. Ällyphunt tries to toot. But all the trunk does, yet oversized, is to go bubble bubble. The work, ink and aquarelle on paper, most likely stems from a deep feeling of inadequacy and magnificent failure that no brain nor soul can tralala away. (And I’ve merely translated those sentiments into Surreal Savanna, nothing strange to that.)
“It’s all in your mind”, the usual helpful dimwits would say. I hope they’ll never break a leg — while I’m nearby. The temptation would be too great, this urge to tell them:
“It doesn’t hurt! You only think so!”
“But my leg hurts; it does hurt, because it hurts for a reason!”
“So doth my thoughts.”
As for existentially lost Ällyphunts, I don’t know if they have anything but strained and confused thoughts left.
Poor thing.
