Sunday, September 16, 2007

It’s cold when I get up and I jump from foot to foot before I get my socks on, I burn my lips on my tea before I push past the whirls of wind and leaves on my way to the bus. I like that. I want to paint with yellow and red on my brush and nothing else.

Actually my physiotherapist told me I’m not allowed to write or draw through the weekend, but who am I if I don’t try?

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