A smooth stroke, a loose wrinkle waiting to be pressed against a platform that is steady enough to carry its heat. It breathes as if it pedals air itself. I’m amazed, and as well as in control. The heavy metal ego springs steam out its lungs, waiting to straighten out everyone’s problems. In this case the victim. The emotions of the victims are reflected by the colors they vibrate, from light colors resembling happiness and dark ones pain and agony. There is no cure but a mere short lasting of satisfaction that covers the skin before it is again damaged. I create, an image so beautiful and flawless it could guide itself past the gates of heaven onto g-d’s skin himself; for a limited time only that is. You see, when in motion, the oceans are flattened and currents are absent. I become time as fabric becomes mine, an epic journey through its cotton fields, its wool dreams, and its silk imagination. I am, therefore, I control. A miscommunication of a pattern could alter faiths for ages because without perfection you are age and I am ageless, therefore I contain it. By the looks of theses angles, from the start to the end, I am able to witness its birth before the steamed semen is pressed onto the fabricated egg. I become one as if it was my own skin pressed to fit into this so-called “perfect” world we strive in. Picture one with age, lost in space, where seventy years ago has spoken his first word, covered by an outline of a models prospect, ironed by my hands controlling a heated plate. Do you understand why I iron? A piece of cloth can cover scars and regrets and obsolete skin, it controls what you see and how the victim feels. I feel well-balanced, thank you iron. I shall return soon.
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