The sun has moved now inexorably along its path and can be seen glowing through my window,  if you care to look.  Its blinding.  I think I may have to move now, or soon, just so i can again see something, anything.

Mary was writing on a pad, on a desk.  Her scrawl was mesmerizing, the type of writing they only had in the old days.  you don’t get that type of writing anymore, people just don’t take the time to practice.

The square couldn’t contemplate the possibility of being a cube, transfixed as it were by the confines of its own existence.  The whale just had time enough to contemplate the beauty of its own existence, before it ceased to be a whale.  And a mayfly struggles to understand the concept of existence when placed inside the infinitly vast yet confined experiences of a rock.

I struggle to understand how she can breathe in that thing, she still looks elegant though, even if her stomach is a tit and her kidneys are her arse.  Plaintive though, melancholy, but oh so beautiful.  I bet my hands could reach all the way round there and touch fingertips.  And my hands aren’t even that big, in fact they’re really small.  I have tiny hands.

It takes ages to paint.

The sun has gone again now.  It keeps doing that, and then coming back again.  I do miss it when its not there, or here.  It doesn’t seem to last long when its here.  need to remember to enjoy it while it lasts.  even if it does hurt.  The iron man says the same. Ted says that pain is cathartic. the iron man burnt his bottom, so i wonder if he’d still say the same.  he probably would, it all makes sense that way.