My Mona Lisa is spoilt; I can see the strokes of dirt on its once beautiful and mysterious smile
I can literally see through her, she is not the same.
I used to stand in the museum all day long, marveling at her cruel beauty.
I always had the impression that she was looking back at me.
People would pass by me and say that I am a fool.
I knew I wasn’t, she had these incredible Sfumato layers of paint that made her left side stand out.
She was in harmony with herself.
She was a perfect pentacle, yin & yang in one and that used to turn me on as hell.
See, most of the greatest paintings are truly pointless. We struggle trying to give them a meaning and that's their trick.
Funny how art makes fun of us!
Her nubile body is still there but it doesn’t send the same longing to my loins.