Uh, Liam sea cow

I've never met Ringo Star (who.what.ever), but I guess he really was shorter in person. Or maybe this is some play on the word 'beetle'. Beetles are tiny, I suppose. But realistically, like all black and white photography, this is a vivid reflection of life.
It's that moment during pre-dawn when you finally start to feel sleep taking effect on your haggard body. You meander off to bed, relieved that you will finally be able to rest, yet reviled to find your sheets feel like slouchy, scratchy boulevards of dust, smothering your feeble self in an equally feeble yet omnipresent cradle you can't derive any back support from.

It is not your sheets. There is no dust. You're delusional from lack of sleep.

Is it your pyjamas; the crinkled, discarded gum wrappers you are wearing?

You check. You're not wearing discarded chewing-gum wrappers.

Or is it your bed; the veritable ashtray of your life you extinguish yourself into every night? Rub yourself out into a dreary haze. The day has dragged on you and puffed you away, then smeared you face down into your own pillow. Later you'll find the sunlight will relight you. Albeit, already burnt and with all your rich tobacco-y goodness sucked from you during your post-adolescent years, you wonder what cruel god incessantly relights the butt you have become.


I doubt Ringo McCartney ever felt like that though. He's probably too rich to care about pretentious black and white photography anyway.