On Romy: The Millenigal

Skin, white as milk from the fields of some time-forgotten English village. A mischievously girlish giggle dances on her lips. You’ve noticed the innocent-looking Bambi patterns on her frilly white panties, against the stark Soviet propaganda that festoons her imperial red-t shirt. Her legs folded on the filthy couch, they cradle her work book, adorned with dated yet cutting-edge drawings of life’s various curios and absurdities.

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