Tale (Velázquez).
Feathers on his hat, bows on his shoes and the floor by his feet. His eyes - depictions of power. But here, pale, as though he knows. Wielding the crucifix like a slow nightmare. Defined and comprehened by dwarfs and dogs.
 Wears a strange selfdelight though. His mouth: blind and scribbling. Shine of water and the glaze of fatigue. The horse and the gleam of a cloudscape,
The same interior over and over.
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