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Keith is an artist, in more ways than just one. He creates music and artwork, available for purchase on his website. Also, he has pareidolia which is a strange phenomenon in which you see faces where there are none.
Because he’s the only person that sees it, the artist has taken it upon himself to allow others to see too. He takes everyday household objects and creates the face he sees in a cartoony style.
There’s even a little backstory to go with it.
Grab my beak if it’s laundry you seek. You barely see me, maybe once a week. How can I not have this disappointed look? I dry your clothes as you read a book. I’m dryer duck, and for a buck, I dry the shirts you tuck. Handle my bill if you will, tweak left for your garments. I’ll see you next week, but please, no more vomit.
GAHAYUCK! Hi there! I have some stuff to share! It’s ice and water, and I suggest in that order. If it’s the latter first, by all means quench your thirst! But let it be known, YAHUH! You’re in the splash zone. My uneven teeth dispense your desires, push my eyes is what I require!
I’m ripe. Teeth rotten. My other half, forgotten. This crescent face is only recent. But not to panic, by botanic rules my seeds will sprout. More tomatoes to creep you out. Though there will be none like me, I’m one of a kind, you won’t find me in a bottle of Heinz.
Not everyone knows what my nose holds. My eyes stay forward minding my own business as you conduct yours. I am a conductor myself being metal and all, you lock the door as your pants fall. I hold your jacket, or whatever you pack, yet I get no recognition as you carry out your mission. You flush and rush as if you have somewhere to be. Next time we meet, please stare back at me.
Yeah, I’m Frankie the furnace, who’s askin’? Short arms with anger fueled by fire, a bowler hat is my only attire. Burning wood is what I do. For cookin’ stew or warming you. But don’t feed me too much I’m warning you. I’m an earnest furnce, and frankly, I couldn’t care less about burning you.
Hi there! I’m Sharron, the stall wall door. I hope the soap on my face stalls you from leaving this place. My look of surprise caused by the amount of hands not using my cleaning supplies. So, come hither and let me sanitize your mitts, then dry your hands after you rinse.
You’re in the bathroom at the urinal urine spilling. A sloth in transit with its oxygen filling. Arms resting in place, smile on its face, slowly but surely, it’s no race. Happy you’re there, the sloth happily stares. As you finish and flush, to the cosmos, no rush.
