Last night I lay in bed thinking of where to go with an oil painting that has got me stumped. I do not like oils. I do not like pulling nose hairs. I have no natural ability but I want to keep pushing. And practicing. And pushing. And pulling nose hairs. Please look at these images. I make them everyday in respiration. I’m a zebra mussel attached and breathing. I filter thick human lake mud and make more clear and empty, maybe innocent. I dream of painting in my sleep that rare and nostalgic blue to pop out once or twice a December in a lifetime.
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They have a look of consternation on their faces. Are they worried about those old husbands' tales of the fearsome antipodlean crocodukz?