Art should by all means, be very, be very ugly - it wasnt a coincidence that his cigarette out of the dozen smokes under the same roof had that special scent to it, he looked like a portrait which made me feel very depressed, anxious and curious all at the same time, like a porcelain doll that'll break just by touching it, but not because it was vulnerable or especially weak, but because it was untouchable, and therefore, also unreachable. I wanted to draw him, burn his beautiful silhouette forever on paper, trace the lineart of his jawline in a timeless but personal masterpiece, reflect and illustrate his eyes which felt like mirrors - the more you looked into them, the more you´d see and hate yourself. I wanted to draw and study his torso in detail, his nose and his lips that could tell you exactly one hundred lies in one night before it turned to silence, but more than anything I wanted to appreciate the lean outlines of his legs and callused hands while deciding his tantalazing shade of colour which had me entraped and captivated, in the midst of a rock bar which was the home of heartbreak and overdoses, I felt like I was getting ill by the dazing riffs and dizzying smoke and sucked up in the dark colours of the walls which were a dirty mix of purple, brown and starlight black  - I wouldn't mind overdosing on art, I decided, as long as I would become part of the masterpiece.

Scrabbling on the wood bar table with my keys while viciously pouring and ordering more drinks by myself I later figured I must´ve seemed like quite the lunatic, alcoholic and a bit mentally unstable, but any thoughts, muttering, pondering or declaration in my head got shut down inmediatly, suddenly and abruptly without red flags of warning, because my personal masterpiece intterupted my vandalazing of bar tables with a voice of its own.

"You look expensive."

Hand under his chin, lips parted and smoke blowing in my face, my masterpiece was becoming more real and ugly with the second whilst the music got louder, and louder, and louder, and louder to the point I swore I went deaf and was to suffer for it for the rest of my life only on my 22th Summer on this planet.

Kiss kiss, the drawing came to life, dark, dark dyed green hair with the black roots painfully but obviously growing out and the most perfect, manipulative and yet warm tone of voice which was deep, so very, very deep. The black, white, green and golden brown portrait infront of me made me become a musician - kiss kiss, we kissed at a house which felt like Draculas mansion, he chocked me in his lair, asked me for  my name, I told him Zhu Lin,  I begged him to please not say his name, he didn't care either way, he hit his aim and my name was for his to reclaim - my masterpiece was chocking me, I swear I could've died, head hanging over the bed, my arms almost touching the wooden foor and our trousers on the ground but both our shirts on our contrasting skin, he was perfected and I was infected and rejected by myself, he had mystery and appeal, I had a surface or paper and anything that could make me draw, he was a vicious and ugly perfectionist, I was an incorrigible optimist with a pessimist and borderline depressive base - the cigarette was let out somewhere on my stomach,  my dirty moans broken by his hands around my neck.

"I hate artists,  they make me want to break them, you're all so ugly yet you make the most beautiful things." I couldn't disagree.

Hands on my thighs, bites here and there, on my collarbone, or my neck, on my thighs, he coloured my disgusting skin in something pretty, my art was drawing me.

Thrusting and hurting and chocking and pinching incited moans and gasps, pulling my hair and my sanity with it, he was violent and disgusting,  I was left used and abused, I explored my masterpiece in and out, I loved it, wanted more of it, even after he finished and forced me down on him, I hung on his legs.

"You're perfect." I meant it.