I want to try something

I want to try something.

Write about this painting.

Nobody biting? What do you think of it?

you forgot to post something about feminism so the thread would get 200 retarded replies and never get deleted because Veeky Forums has no mods

Skyscrapers are phallic symbols of the patriarchy and oppression of women. Prove me wrong

Do you have any evidence to assert your claim

I would copy/paste The Fountainhead if it weren't for the character limit.

How would you go about adjusting your writign to the character of this painting?
I cant name the exact style of the painting but it reminds me of cubism to an extant, brutalist architecture and something juvenile.

Molly was tired of the city, the bland windowed blocks bored her to tears with their imposing sameness and rigidity. She wanted openness, horse stables, grass. She was trapped and knew it.

I know its a bit cliche to write about first world existentialism in a city but it's the first thing that came to mind since I can relate.

-How long do you thing it would take to hit the ground if you jumped?
-Longer than I'd like to think about. Come on let's go back inside. I'm starting to feel sick.
-Do you have any money on you?
-Some.
-They say at this height a penny can slice into a man's brain if dropped.
-How terrible; here's a dollar. It won't slice a hundred brains but it would be nice to watch float down.
-It's alright. Let's go back. They're probably looking for us.

A stone was flung outside the window. It tumbeled down the roof. It then fell.
It was a little girl with braids and a smile.
Her mother took her my the hand while swinging her finger at her, telling her she is a bad girl.

This looks like Patrick Bateman sitting in his office with a view of New York to me.

1
"Although it was mid-day, and I'd spent most of my night awake. I could not sleep. I'd put up the black out curtains, my sleeping mask and even played one of those white noises CD's that my dad gave me for christmas; nothing seemed to do the trick though.
I thought too much. Every girl I'd ever met told me that, including my mom. I was like a hypochondriac for social situations and I saw Murphy's Law as being on the same level as treason. So, with nearly twelve hours to my..."

Bright light, thin pale shadow.

2.
"..shift, I came to terms with the fact that I would likely die from sleep deprivation before I had sex again. The bags under my eyes and the blueness of my balls only helped in solidifying this sat reality.
'yeah bitch'
'yes, uh huh, yessssss'
Was what I heard from my above stairs neighbors; a gay couple who occasionally stayed in the apartment on the floor above mine and owned a small landscaping business out in the country. Most of the time the two men stayed in the apartment they were...fucking, and quite loudly at that. This did, constant and unquestionably passionate love making at all odd hours of the day did nothing for my self esteem, nor my sleep schedule."

This is pretty good. Reminds me of Sam Pink.

>everyone is addressing the topic of the painting while not even trying to transmit the style.
You got a lot to learn kiddo.

Its cliched trash, no to mention it has nothing to do with the painting aside from supposedly using the location it portrays but the mood is completely off.

This is a step in the right direction, maybe we can actually start addressing the form of the painting and what it means to truly try to feel the mood and style and transmiting it into how you write.

>maybe we can actually start addressing the form of the painting and what it means to truly try to feel the mood and style and transmiting it into how you write.

the Op says write about the painting, not write in a style to match the form of the painting you fucking autist

It's bad

Fuck me, dude, I can't tell you how awesome my job is.

You want to know what my fucking day is like, okay here goes.
I wake up in my fucking PENTHOUSE apartment at the top of one of the tallest buildings in the city, and I stretch. I stretch out nice and tall and wide and take up plenty of space, which I have, because my penthouse apartment in the fucking sky is huge.
My stunningly attractive secretary unlimbers herself, rises from the bed like some type of forest spirit, and gets in the shower. Maybe I'll join her, but today I felt like working out.
So I went to my deluxe gym and lifted heavy-ass weights for an hour. Fuck yeah, I stretched dude, I'm not a fucking retard like you. You're too afraid to stretch cause you never done it before and you got no reason to stay limber, I stretch so I can keep fucking hot bimbos until i'm 90.
I get in the shower, hose off. When I get out, my secretary, Maggie, she's waiting for me. Says breakfast is cooking, why don't we have a little fun? So I fuck my bimbo while the eggs boil. I shower again, because I leave time for fucking my bitch in the schedule.
I eat my eggs. Hard-boiled, so you can put hot sauce and salad dressing on them. No not fucking ranch you degenerate, you put some fucking vinaigrette on hard boiled eggs. What the fuck is wrong with you?
Yeah, and then I walk to the elevator and go down three floors, to the top floor of my fucking office, where I proceed to shatter the assholes of about fifty to sixty people in negotiations for robot parts. And now I'm talking to a fucking schmuck over my lunch chicken. Yeah, my chicken's good, this chicken is fucking great. It tastes wonderful, even though it's overcooked and the chef has cerebral palsy and fucking ruined it with spices. It tastes wonderful because my life is fucking great and it's literally impossible for anything as shitty as bad lunch fare to get in the way of my excellent fucking life.

Howard Roark silently took in the panorama of commie blocks, and started to leak precum.
"Here, have a hanky," Toohey intoned, his voice pointing an arrow to the growing stain on Roark's trousers.
"NO," Roark shrieked, spinning madly. He grabbed the teapot from Toohey's hands and threw it out the window.
Toohey looked aghast, his eyes searching for an explanation. It never came. Roark began.
"Is it not the bromide of self-interest which percolates man's soul in recompense for some ancient misdeed? Notwithstanding, the spirit, if there were such a thing, ought not it to be singed by the flames of mankind's hedonistic outrage? Is it not mankind's greatest triumph, if indeed it is a triumph at all?"
Toohey's head exploded in a puff of logic. For a moment, the train was silent - and then, a murmur of voices, like the distant rising of the sea, until feverish applause filled the bus.