Original artwork description:

Acrylic on craft paper, 266 × 84 cm, funftich
full name - Pub Raderade: Red strats and win!

Artist's Howl

This painting is the scar tissue of nights that never ended - where chessboards became battlefields and every empty glass held a shipwrecked revolution. I built it from the debris we left behind: cigarette ash philosophy, beer-soaked manifestos, and that particular shade of neon that hums through your teeth at closing time. (Now we're in the territory of Mayakovsky meets Tom Waits)

The Texts (Graffiti of the Damned)
1. "Hey comrade Buddy..."
A question thrown like a brick through the window of eternity. Painted with a brush dipped in last call desperation and the ghost light of streetlamps. That "Quo vadis?" isn't Latin - it's the sound a man makes when he's lost the map to his own life.
2. "Richard III..."
Our drunken gospel. The sacred text we whispered when the police came. Now immortalized in the sacred ink of regret and acrylic medium.

The Alchemy
The red isn't paint - it's the bloodshot dawn we never slept to see. The cracks in the paper? Those are the fault lines between what we promised and what we became. And the empty spaces - oh, the empty spaces hum louder than any words. They're the silence after the last glass shatters.

A Spell (Not a Statement)
This work is:
• A séance for ghosts we created at 3 AM
• The autopsy report of a utopia that never showed up to its own funeral
• A love letter written with a knife on the bathroom wall of history

Viewer's Rite
1. Stand close enough to smell the acrylic (it's cheaper than our vodka was)
2. Laugh at the jokes
3. Then realize they're not jokes
4. Buy me a drink

Last Call
This isn't art. It's the emergency exit sign for a burning building we never left. The "Raderade" isn't a word - it's the sound the heart makes when it's been drinking alone too long.

Come closer, comrade. The painting won't bite.
(But I might.)

Materials used:

Kraftpaper, acrilic paints

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