tingle

All I can say is I slept last night. I'm still in bed rubbing my eyes and thinking, thinking, wrapped in our wine colored blanket. I'm crashing from being off the saviour medicine. I have to start over with basically everything. Even my sleeping pills don't work, I only slept last night because I had been up since 5:30 the day before. Somehow this turns into a sick story blog, like I have cancer. But it's there, in the corners, haunting like an etch-a-sketch. I will be patient because I have to be patient. I will start from square one because I have to start from square one, there is no other option, I live and seep amongst all this like a dirty fish tank. 

But to move today. I have a new painting of the beach and hate it because it isn't like the one in the lesson, but like it because I made it, I'm in a seashell conundrum about it. But now I have two paintings and now to set up my art room for my birthday, fingers crossed for money. Today to move around a bit and rescue my poor car that is far away from me with the keys stuck in it's belly button, poor car, now named George. Tragedy brings us together even when he rumble tumbles with noise and tired muscles each time I drive him, and he smells like smoke, and is always generally moody.

He is my heart felt and taking me to Vegas for my day. Not my car, my Ron. We read together every night and live amidst a survival tunnel, but it works and he is my sweet wonderful, and reason.