[while art calls some liquor calls others, namely one slumped man in a bird beak mask he finds remarkably dull compared to the last bird mask he wore. how long ago was it now? days, months, minutes- it's all the same, it's all the same. like the liquor in various hues that seem promising, new and hopefully just as seductive as his typical mistress in her green, grimy bottles.

he mixes them all. yes, all the special liquors twirled around a single glass in ruby, gold and diamond, each downed separately and offering no greater answers than the barest hint of warmth across his skin.

and the urge to move and actually look at the people around, it turns out. which he does, letting his feet drag, wishing for the comfort of his old coat. diggers stands out like a colorful sore thumb and a comfortable one at that. no stuffy costume, chest bare.

peace love and art. bubbles.]

Bubbles. [yup, that's his greeting, head tilted like a bird. the mask helps the image. he reaches to tap the edge of diggers' glasses as if to make his point.] Once I built a great work, a daughter, her entire surface reflective and warped.

Popped. [he needs harder liquor, he decides. a shame this is all they have. art will have to do.] Do you need a new canvas? You can have it.