ou est benjamin rodger?

::: perhaps he has been swallowed by the azur tides of the mediterranean, clinging a blank canvas, images of a canadian capital city in chartreuse swimming between strokes ivory-capped waves and a vengeful european sun his companions ::: perhaps he is painting with violet mittens, in the cold closets of a french art school looking to his well-bred compatriots in red woolen scarves for inspiration ::: perhaps he is collapsed grey drunk on the blonde floorboards of a month-to-month rental waiting for a dark-orange dawn to disturb his deep sleep ::: perhaps he is tired of correpsondence in blue ink with this black disaster and prefers the salmon smiles of more functional versions of the female form ::: perhaps he's given up on this dark-orchid life and has left us for olive dead instead :::