I wanted to be alone with the pictures, not pushed into obscured views, by middle class tourists vultures. I wanted to fuck with the Lovers, scream alone with the Popes, look without their polite chatter, rammed with prams and told to move aside. Spoiling my selfish splendour.
Shuttering adoration not their fucking browse. But I never much liked people. I stared at the black red meat impasto - royal purple chattering teeth. On the verge of crying. A baby screams as I stare at a Fury.