Scribbled memories meet irises on the window and there in the twilight is a painting of a blue box.
Have but all insights died? Do these words reflect the dull me that feels no pain at all? Art without pain is as useless as art in a five star hotel. I am become my plastic image of security and it frightens me. On the trail home last week I tumbled down a rocky, muddy hill and cut my hands; brown and red from the fall, pants tattered. In the stream a reflection I could not immediately recognize. Oh pleasure, oh sick, twisted face, that you can be a filfthy piece of bleeding flesh in the mud and be all the more happy. I think now as I bent over to clean those hands, I may never wash myself of the concrete that has taken a hold of me.
"Out! Out damned spot!" And I am just the painting in the five star hotel(abstract, oh yes) that pretends to be more than a colour splattered mess. How can I write?
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