#xeto

[wenqxiao]

captain xeto

[denissena]

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Boiadeiro e Marujo em dois mundos Técnica mista sobre tela. Tamanho 80 x 1,20 #boiadeiro #arte #espiritualidade #xeto #pinturaemtela #operariocultural #afeto #marujo #marujada #tradição https://www.instagram.com/p/BwKA25AnCGr/?igshid=n1o2yd395g0c

[denissena]

O caboclo levando a boiada. Acrílica sobre tela. Tamanho 80 x 1,20 #boiadeiro #arte #espiritualidade #xeto #pinturaemtela #operariocultural https://www.instagram.com/p/BwGXZtPnOaf/?igshid=d39lzixqdlbr

[archivedobliviting]

— Replying to (Δ)

  "Yeah, well. We do—so learn about it." Slurred words tumble from dry lips with his signature shoulder-shaking laugh. The poor boy's become so weak the past couple of months that laughter is like a stab in the heart. Laughing is so, so painful. Alcohol has a way of numbing that, though. He's an addict, he's terrible but the numbing is—oh, it's so sweet. It's so—alleviating. Why do you think he's always piss drunk??   The freckled boy's practically laying on the other male now, too-long gone to care in the slightest; to give a fraction of a fuck! He's got a bottle of Hite in his hand (which he's nursed so tenderly—it's near empty), condensation tinkering down the shaft and staining his corduroys. The other arm remains coiled around the other, giving his shoulder an awkward pat. Or two. Or three. It's following the beat of the song so obnoxiously infiltrating their young brains.   "You're warm. 'n smell like...uh, a field of...sweet-smelling things. I'd like to live there." Now he's just speaking pure nonsense, capturing the bottle between his knobby knees to free up his hand. From there, bony digits twist through his own disheveled nest of brown curls, raking his bangs back only to have them return to their duty of  almost completely sheathing his eyes. "You want the rest of this?" He's referring to his drink. The one between his legs. Charming, Abel.