Ferocious layerings of his sweet sweaty ironed mane consume his solid, world wearied shoulders, in natural shades: deepest and darkest- a stark heathen automatic black print, then independently cropped rock flour, volcanic ash made mess of by apathetic authorities (familiarly donned fingers), the thrills of this in turn douse, tease, and appear as bleached light, heavenly sugar, oily child’s. His eyes the blazing cherries of this wicked sundae, trickling scars the cinnamon sprinkles, his entire appearance a sweet depression.

His aura and fur flicker as an outdated television set in a hurricane, snatches of ungraspable nightmarish distress, daggers of a bleak wounded dove, numbed night, and grizzled thunder cloud- much like himself. Tainted, his coat of bleeding camo in a mime’s mind expresses the cause of his hatred with small gashes of his life’s ruins, tiny shattered glass cut deep and fast. Him permanently poisoned passionate from right crimson ground weeper to its respective side of a fragile, defensive face in a drunken pirouette.

A man apart from science, but once condemned as the very embodiment of its advances, carves his own dog tags from broken metal scraps he salvages from odd jobs. They usually read: Jehovah’s Witness- DO NOT SEEK MEDICAL CARE. No name, no need- this man knows no true label (escape mutt- homeless, disfigured, as it were), the last identity forsaken from him to, in his opinion, a mad doctor. Thus all help of modern aid dwells completely forsaken by its bitter trophy.

Red wine dines eyes that match, a tasteful color for the fashion flavorless. Bloodthirsty orbs hidden by shades at eclipse and midnight- turtlenecks in heat waves and leather gloves for menial tasks, he cloaks all signs of deformity to avoid attention. Black and red cloth this man uses for hiding tear tracks of damnation- repulsive blood that blinds, his soul fluid pouring out of their portal in a match-set rage. They freeze upon his gaunt cheek, they’ll shatter upon the ground they break or he’ll wipe them away with a numbly cold claw- in attitudes and temperatures alike. Stricken by chemicals, this mutt breathes and sweats ice- power untamed by a misplaced voice box rotting in a medical lab. A ragged diagonal slit in a marble gloss destitute ink blinks in a subtly gory stroke, this coloring decidingly separates this scar from a valley engraved upon his neck where now only the ghost of his voice resides.

Fed upon the most ugly parts of souls, this Sin Eater consumes for the meager rewards of money, poor-quality food, and personal satisfactions of the sick. Without speech, a fickle loneliness creates desperation for company even of the foulest while paralyzing fears keeps him from the living hosts of such comforts. His work comes from all walks of life: the experimental, the confused, the mournfully insane, but most of all the superstitious. It was that very trait that brought him to the high-end market of rich closet believers in this catholic school’s area.