To be placed atop a shot of a woman's shoulder and neckline, with a scarf:

"Her eyes are a little too alive," he said in an overly stealthy voice. I tried to warn him, but it was too late. "You're being too quiet," I told him. "You're drawing attention to yourself." He wouldn't listen. "I'm right, though, aren't I?" he intoned. It was barely above a whisper. He was right--I had to change the subject. "That's not the point," I breathed. "You're too--"

I could hardly hear myself. I had fallen into his beguiling attempt at fading into the woodwork, and now we both stood out more than if we had been shouting. I could feel their eyes on us. No one knew what we had been talking about, they only knew we didn't wish to be heard. Most of all, I could feel her eyes, glistening with something I knew not. 'Too alive.' I knew that.

I put it to you:

What is wrong with moustaches? Eh?

For Every Problem, a Solution (4)

God as depicted throughout the ages. No Alanis Morissette, and, no, that isn't ironic.

My room is a mess, my painting unfinished.

...and I still haven't found a good alternative to my scanner with its missing power-cord. Almost finished with this painting, though. I just need to put in a bus seat in front of and behind the passenger. Incidentally, the Seattle Metro buses have the ugliest upholstery I can remember seeing, and I spent five years working at a used furniture store.

Pointless Man

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