the hipster au no one asked for.
It’s easy to just go, sketch after sketch, almost on autopilot. He thinks about the little things that had jumped out at him yesterday — hipster summer slouch, the heavier materials of middle America, the washed out neutrals of his own childhood. The ghost stories and monster tales sit at the back of his mind, spectral and glowing, and he knows they’re guiding some of what he’s drawing, in the abstract.
so a Camaro and Roscoe walk into a bar…
a boy and his angels.