Sam found your workshirt.
We used it to slather ourselves in paint and write racist messages on the houses of his neighbors.
you guys are great, big, gaping assholes for painting your bodies with my shirt. That was my favorite shirt, because it fit me the best, and had the fewest stains.
oh well. $2.50 (ahem) really isn’t that big of a deal.
tell me, how did this happen?
Knowing he was probably frantic, full of coffee, wrote back:
How does anything happen, Matthew, especially in art? I suppose if anything you can call it a moment of passion and clarity. We were simply returning your shirt to its most natural and happy state: soaked in paint made from berries and body fluids, being rubbed all over our skin. C’est la vie, Uribe. C’est la guerre.
Postscript: Just to be clear, you are still getting it back.