It was the type of painting that seemed to invite its viewer to walk into it as though it had an actual depth. The whole painting didn’t possess this quality, only a small seemingly insignificant part did. It certainly was a most unusual portal the crease in the empresses’ white lace stockings promised on that sultry day.


Spent all day rewriting passages from various books the way I wanted them to be.


There are wonderful people in the world, and then there are those that should not have been born. I fall (literally) into a third category: those who were born but aren’t here.


The selection of “which way to turn” has been made. The way to turn is inside-out, inside or out, and in any kind of weather, preferably next to an attractive body of water, a somewhere that was well thought out during those white nights in the tropics, inside a rapidly forming drop of moisture.