Should I ekstasis or should I go?

(The Clash humor. Classic.)
Updated for optimal grade.

First entrance, a rudimentary flying machine almost pokes your eye. Now one wonders what the hell that thing is. Looking past this oblong figure, bright blues of a fabric patchwork glistens in your eye. Once more you turn to what you once thought might be able to fly. Heavy chain, and long leather belt give the mind no more clues than earlier. Walking away, the finer details of the room come into play, nothing of interest until, baffled; you stare at these works, mouth slightly agape.

Comprehension doesn't come easy as I look at this art. Each piece more mysterious than the pronunciation of the artists last name. Minimal use of color, and optimal use of shape and textures, he forms each piece. One can't help but picture a mad scientist creating machines with beating hearts pumping blood through ancient metals all for the purpose of a hot cup of chamomile tea on a lazy afternoon. Each contraption a twisting work of rusted metal, winding, aged tubing. Busy works of a mind gone mad. Meticulous placement and arrangement of once useless scraps. Organized chaos. Barbaric civility.

Snapping out of it, the blurred edges of your vision once again come clear, you remember where you are. Sweeping the area, shuffling steps and furrowed brows of other students all hard at work kick start your memory. You get busy making a sad attempt to imitate the brilliance of three dimensional insanity, with a ballpoint pen.

As expected you cannot sketch something so magnificent. It's like trying to find the right words to say in a beautiful, perfect moment. It just is. And his works just are. They breathe commotion and bleed chaos. You exit fulfilled but warped. Legs slightly jellied as you climb the final steps to the second floor. Reality comes once again into full force, completely concrete. You exhale.