It isn't written

I can see the painting, from my bed, beside the painting, where I'm sitting, in the reflection, on the mirror, across the room.

I don't know why that's important.

I suppose it's just an impersonal way of reflecting on the more important thoughts I've had today--my way of recording the way a feel in the moment I feel it, without...

The painting hung in the same gallery, at the same museum, on the same wall, as the artist's, in the film I watched today, but no one saw it. I didn't know that had bothered me. I suppose it hadn't. But now, as I recall my visit to the place--to pick it up--

Reflecting, recording, remembering--slowly about the room...





I've already started many unfinished...

I've already started many unfinished...

I've already started many unfinished...

Because I don't share myself with anyone.



I think it's strange that "love" is a commandment. I think "nice" would be an easier one.