"All My Heart" Accepted For "The Beat" Exhibition 🎉

My Dear Reader,

I fear I have not written for many weeks. Work has been intense, and my obsessions grip me like a vice. I fear your heart will grow cold to me, but since you will not, or cannot, return these letters, I must journey on, like a small boat, awash in a storm of uncertainty, and far from your sunlit shore.

When I last wrote to you of my labours, I was much vexed by the phenomena that chemists (those most-noble men of science, and aye, I hear tell, women too), are pleased to call 'Thermal Runaway'. My epoxy grows hot, and frustrated for any outlet to vent its wretched heat, grows ever hotter, but that serves only to feed the fire of its lust for combination and chemicaling, leading it to ever greater fiery passion, till my wax grows weak, fails, and spurts up in orgasmic plumes. It's weakness of character causes me much angst and sorrow, dear reader.

But linger not on this sad and sordid matter, for I have good news! As I detailed to you in my last letter, I am replete and blessed with many options to pursue, and pursue them I did! What joy! I took in hand my heart of plaster and (that most evil of substances) epoxy, and I did lay it down in a hard but enveloping bed of the same. Thus half-sunk in that most evil juice of satan's loins, I did stop and ponder of the meaning of such half-consumption of one by the other. After much angst, I spoke to my friends, those that are both critical and deceased, and we did all agree that such half-embedding was most excellent in manner, and dripping most winsomely with meaning and potential, and so I stopped.

Behold:

The heart, that is to say, the fist, sits half-consumed by the devil juice. Is it sinking? Does it rise? Does it seek protection? Or risk escape? Who know, dear reader! Not I! But I have my thoughts, which I beg you indulge me to keep, and let other make of it as they will!

With this achieved, my mind turned to the last of my hearts, so fragile, and discomfortingly fashioned of the same material as the heart that I had lost. Ah, my poor lost heart! I would not loose another, so I spurned the devil juice completely! So how to show this little trinket? Why in my trinket box, which I had purveyed from that great merchant, run by the excellent and in no way creepy, Mr Bezos. I was much taken with this box, and the price was most reasonable owing to Mr Bezos' forward-thinking and customer-centric practice of not paying his workers a living wage. Hazzah!

My heart did not fit in this box, although it was much taken by it, so I sought to extend it. The box put me in mind of a reliquary, made to hold the wretched remains of a dead person of great standing with the christian church, for what else would one do with the desiccated heart of someone much respected save put it in a vessel with accommodating windows, and let vast numbers of total strangers kiss it? It's certainly what I wish to be done with my rotted chest pump when I am no-longer in need of it!

Dear reader, second only to the devil juice epoxy, I fear and hate most the saw that cuts in circles! A saw that cuts holes of beautiful smooth roundness, but at what a cost of screaming and grating and burning and spitting of sawdust. Nevertheless, I befriended this beast and set it to work fashioning a plate of wood, with a depression in the middle, of exactly the size requested by those wonderful fellows and felloweses at The Beat. That done (and it was no small task, nor without great terror and peril), I placed the heart inside, and Mr Bezos' excellently-priced box over the top, inverted in the manner of a lid:

I was mighty pleased, but mindful that my opinion matters not, I sent electronic pictograms to those wonderful Beaters, and they send word that they too held the fruits of my efforts in high-esteem! What joy! I let out a sound of joy quite unbecoming of a gentleman, and disturbing to the company present, who feared for my health, or perhaps my continence.

And so you see, I feel great joy, and I wish I could share it with you dear reader! Why do you not write me back? Has your heart grown cold? Should it too, perhaps, be torn from your chest and placed in a brass and glass case, so I might finally have it near me?

In great anticipation of your swift and grovelling response,

Mr Tom