
The man in the lower right corner is for real. So are the words he's saying.
\m/

She puts her head in my lap and I flinch, then reach to stroke her hair. I think I'm embarrassed by her sudden affection, her trust. I'm fifteen and I don't want anyone to know she's my girlfriend.
Against a fall of snow, a Being Beautiful, and very tall.
Whistlings of death and circles of faint music
Make this adored body, swelling and trembling
Like a specter, rise...
Black and scarlet gashes burst in the gleaming flesh.
The true colors of life grow dark,
Shimmering and separate
In the scaffolding, around the Vision.
Shiverings mutter and rise,
And the furious taste of these effects is charged
With deadly whistlings and the raucous music
That the world, far behind us, hurls at our mother of beauty...
She retreats, she rises up...
Oh! Our bones have put on new flesh, for love.
Oh ash-white face!
Oh tousled hair!
Oh crystal arms!
On this cannon I mean to destroy myself
In a swirling of trees and soft air!
-A. Rimbaud.


Everything is comics. Comics are air. Cave paintings, the Stations of the Cross, the Bayeux Tapestry, woodcut novels, army maintenance guides, airplane safety cards — all comics. Comics are everywhere, the ideoplasmic universe of human culture from its dawn to one second ago and up the line until the sun goes dark. Nothing but words and pictures: but they are what define the way we frame ideas and experiences. They do anything.




