The last I wrote a log entry, I was facing a stonewall, rolling paint down in sheets. Cold air or a summer breeze, I laid down my canvas: a stunning black wall parched for the painting I see.
I slipped a quarter in each pocket to keep me level. A flask in the till for when I’ve failed.
The wall was east and the sun was west, and I, but for a building a thousand paces away, slept between them.