Work Text:
I am, I find, jealous. It's ridiculous, I think, looking at Silvia Lin's new sketches. A young man offers love to a girl whose slit-pupilled eyes are fixed on the horizon. I examine the youth proffering his heart, the careful details of the shattered ribs, the rough gaping of his chest, the flesh still caught in his own nails. This love will kill him; his slanted smile says he is the winner, not his inamorata. It's stupid to resent him modelling for another. I study the figure of the girl again.
I would not look away from such a gift.