practicing some form of love in a room costing 500 euros a month

She (what does her name matter when it could be any of us?) arrived in the city (what does it matter which one, when it could be any of them), and the only roof over her head she could afford was a tiny room costing 500 bucks a month. She had toured the city and seen dozens of places; although this one was a bit pricier than the rest, that large window was a lifeline. The others had been dark, damp hovels. She knew that in those places, it wouldn't take long for her to die a living death. "What I need is a hug," she told a guy she’d spent the evening with at a bar. "And who doesn't?" he replied. They wake up together without being a steady couple, yet they aren't merely using one another, either. In these times of either absolute romanticism or absolute dehumanization, they interrupt that reality with a kind of fleeting tenderness. A brief tenderness shared by people exhausted by the cost of living, by tiny rooms, by impossible cities... Finding a way to treat each other gently, even if they only share a single night. After fucking, remaining interested in the other person. Being much more than just a walking cock or a wet hole. Wanting to keep talking, wanting to have breakfast, wanting to share a little more time before each goes their own way. But taking care of each other. Above all, taking care of each other. Because in these cannibalistic cities, ultimately, we have to look out for one another—with our hugs and with our very existence. Because not wanting a long-term relationship doesn't mean you have to use the other person as if they were nothing more than a hole or a walking dick. Even in brief encounters, it is possible to practice a form of love. Oil on oilcloth (from the discount shop). 80 x 65 cm.