Wonderment

Men count up the faults of those who keep them waiting. This seems to me a perfect appendage to today's chapter. I feel strange and distant, caught inbetween small trappings of anger and worry and yet a blissful assurance; so rare these days; in my own abilities. Just to sit down and paint for a few hours - stopping only because I felt sick from the turps I was inhaling, then folding out the colours from the brushes on an old work shirt. It is a small satisfaction to do this. To use something functionally, that I would otherwise throw away or in a less likely mood, burn in a hole puckered oil can with four imaginary hobos / oracles. 

I guess I feel like a bit of an outsider still, but I must relish this time, I know from experience it won't last. Better to be aware than indifferent. Ultimately anything that brings me a crumb of what I want will keep me going, albeit with mighty hungers. To look at me you wouldn't immediately think I was a devourer; then again I think we all have the capacity to surprise ourselves. How many more surprises for me then, outside of my sky room, sour mouths? Right eye sore. Right hunger. Wrong way to keep me interested.