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.


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