Old eye sightings 'ave their due repose.



Is Huso the eye?



Between the snows, the crammed-in sensations, and the distant remarks y' get from some more glassy-eyed types, we fig're all is well an' all for some serious high time in the nods and gramps and patted-grey departments regarding leadings-off into the nefarious. What all this entails? Eeeh, you know? I drop a few metaphors in there, but said and such and handsome gatherings, she's onboard for the finger point elusive. Is Huso a book? Only if the book offers up no solution. Is Huso art? No. Art is what whiter people teeth into when they're gaping for a pic' to shove-in-fronta' their friends' nostrils; like copies of Dwell or some sorta' sham'erican billfold. Gosh, we stand around alot, not really solving anything! And TIDY, boy! Is Huso a form of discontent? Now and again. Seeing is believing what you want to see. What sights there are now and then in the out-of or out to sea is a difference worth pouting about until shove gets to push gets to poke, and all's left is that lil' agog. From this render you need to take cover. But before the shelves all fall over (in a hilarious splat down a requiem of Duchamp paintings)(i.e., stairs with nudey-pies), it's good to gather stock and get a bag going. Is Huso a bag? Only when you wear it.