“My dad is half Japanese and half Latvian, my mom is French, they met, married and I was born in Alabama.”
That’s a story right there … it emerged as I complimented her on her tattoos.
“This one,” pointing to her upper left arm, “is by an artist that specialized in Victorian Cats but as she got older the cat illustrations morphed into psychedelic art. The explanation of the morphing emerged when doctors diagnosed her as schizophrenic. My brother is a cat lover who is schizophrenic, this is to honor him.”
As I looked at the tattoo, it flipped between cat and owl, not quite as a Rubin Vase … better, more detail, with color … it was almost alive.
The tattoo just below the dedication to her brother was of a tear vial. The art was beautiful. The story that accompanied it just as.
A young woman literally (?) wearing her heart on her sleeve.
It is as sure as you are Roderigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago.
In following him, I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end;
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In complement extern, ’tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at. I am not what I am.
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