I wonder; whatever it is that I am doing, whatever it is that I’ve done, does it even count. Counting is such a psychotic act though. It has this unreal uniformity that fuses with my world and makes it… ha… count. It sure is beautiful to watch a bird, living with a sense of purpose that is not aware of itself. It would be nice to just listen to the motion of things, to the commotion of things, to the flutter of wings… Afternoon… painted for me… I want to paint an afternoon. Flowers, young and old, smile.

I clicked a few pictures.



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