A painting a day. Tha'd be great. Hell, a painting a week would add up. Twelve new paintings a year. That's not stellar but it would still be an exhibition. "Wished he'd been more prolific." That might possibly be my epitaph. At least a part of it.
Bittersweet: Twenty-four hours and things to do. Things we want to do, things we have to do, things we oughta do. When you're a child there are things you cannot do because you are not yet an adult. Before you know it there are things you can't do because you are no longer young. And then there's the being dead thing. That pretty much puts the brakes on everything.
Right now I have to stop doing this and do something else. I won't say what. And then I have to go some where. When I return many hours will have passed and I can promise the world one thing: I will not have created another painting.
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