An old photo of an old note, but the poem is on my mind tonight.
My migraine is killing me, so this will be short. A construction site seemed to have set up shop inside my skull, and the drilling has been non-stop. I wonder what they will unearth beneath all my thoughts and anxieties.
Pollock said, “Sometimes I lose a painting. But I have no fear of changes, of destroying the image, because a painting has a life of its own. I kind of let it live.”
I need to let some things lie, to let some things live.
Good night, M.