Swaying softly in the breeze a lovely not yet decayed body waits to be found. The country grass moves along uncaring with the wind. No one knows he's dead. No one cares. He waits for the person he died for to find him; will she ever? The tree stands casting its shadow tall along side his, the sun is setting and no one's around.
--Pencil on paper. Scanner obliterated some of the shading. This is the work i produce when listening to Candlebox...so unhappy looking stuff. Oh well, who the hell needs happy?