12.44 AM

There were hundreds of pelicans flying, we stopped counting them or they got stuck in the mud. We have a map, spyglasses, something to screen print on the walls. We don't have to watch these hateful cyclists denigrating women on grotesque programs. The sun, the light in the garden.

The general would write in his campaign diary. We got ready to see the churches in Malta or Tunisia, clouds, parks, pedestrian signs scattered on the ground, bent, dirty.

I want to see the sand of the eastern sea, it's not fragile, it's made of stones and cigarette butts.
No feeding the pigeons, no painting the walls and clouds. Again, the immense, endless sea.
No screens, yellow faces, howling wolves. Just perpendicular lights, for me. I don't want to scrub dishes and stop contemplating the green wheat. To brush my fingers against the ears of corn that grew from my hands. The smell of saltpeter is a bonus that comes to me from Italy. I recover friends, label them, and wind them up. I recognize the warmth in their eyes. They are not fragments of memory. They are alive, they pause, they are soft, gentle, and they purr or talk about art.
I can see petals or dolphins. I plot routes with a sextant that I can rent. You want a boat, with a less orange lake. I can paint it and share it. It's a piece of canvas or paper. But it's our boat, a code.

Pelicans in outer space, rearranging feathers and encounters. It is the oblique light that crosses your hair, even if it is fog, and you carry pieces of wood, damp, with labels, against the light. Continue to enjoy slowly. The afternoon is with the colors you want to redraw.

I bless you, giver of hope and sketchbooks. Tireless creator of dragons, I hope that as the night continues to advance, you are happy under the sun, painting, painting.