The Acryliac

In the windowless cubicle that houses his paintings, a young man of even younger yearnings takes me on a guided tour to a lopsided lollipop-land in the throes of Eros. From a distant vantagepoint the viewer is able to glimpse frozen visions of lost innocence that burn with sub-zero, moral values yet resonate sharply on the seismograph of growing pains. A graph of the kinks and peaks that zigzag their way from birth to death on the fragile parchment we unroll for all the eyes of heaven to judge