Sixty-two shopping days to Christmas
Another week survived. A new poem started.
Tristram makes the students draw me at arm’s length. Paper on the floor. Long willow sticks dipped into ink in jam-jars.
I look like I’m drawn in blood. After the brutal axe murder the serial killer leaves his famed signature, a bloody sketch on the bed-sheet’s white expanse.
I’ll use that in a story.
Tristram has a wife and kids and a studio in his basement that he never sets foot in. Apparently family life wasn’t good for Picasso either.
I am lucky.
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