Sunday night and letting the sublime sedation of a grand days work flow over me.
Without getting too psycho wankery about it, I am never more transformed than when I'm painting well.
David Sylvian is on his third rotation, there's a cool air moving through the studio, I've got nothing clanking around in my periphery and my mind is lilting on a hammock between two palms on a beach in the pacific somewhere.
The dark just flows out of me, like its trickling down my fingertips and through my sable.
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