Rosary Gardyn...the gallery of cats and dolls.

...All the poems she might have scratched under the table; with her own fingernails. Hey, im not saying that I ever did that. But it’s an interesting thought. A kind of heroin she was, for me. I could justify everything I did. I was either entertaining, or entertaining. Im sure you see what I mean. To be dark, but yet...bright. And melancholy; but have everyone want to be around you. Or in you.

That’s really what it is, under my veins and all around me. A dance, of… Water dripping, fan humming. Spinning. Doll heads on a rusty rake. No eyes and aimless. Hot liquid. metal. Raw -steak- iron- dust in my nose. The child. The most intelligent. Nothing and everything. Trash and soul. Flesh and sound. Reality, maybe. Imagination; Probably. But it’s indescribable. Evil; perhaps. Amazing, absolutely.