You are the most refreshing drop of blood/water/sweat/milk/kool-Aid. You have ivy in your veins and whirls in your head. All of this/these surround you as you fall or fly or flee or flow flea fly flow flum. It's all a matter of time they said but the artist was born and lives upon this earth like a shadow running through grass it was that quick and bang it was over and what was left for men to see apart from a dried husk? Only these images, some good, some not so good, all done with love and labor. the painter paints the writer writes, the finger fings, the door it knocks, the world it answers: "Who's there?"
"It is but I," the speaker speaks. It is I, the painter who paints and
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