My Diary

The sun was beating a toy drum as I tied my imaginary golden locks to the window and climbed down.  I sailed across the surface of a silent lake waiting for the drum sticks to fall as the marching band set forth.  My head was nearly bald and reflected faces of long gone people – not all of whom I had met. For the first time in over a week I was able to float in the spaces of my studio.  I worked on a landscape draped across the chest of a young woman.  I was happy at this point to find an old toffee in my pocket.

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