I died once. It was cold and dark like a pickle jar in the back of a refrigerator. I was living in an old apartment that leched mold from the walls. Sickness grabbed me and wrapped around my heart. Confusion took over my mind. All I had was the paint and a radio to click on and out of the world. I lived alone waiting for my 1000th painting. Death and I had made a pact for inspiration. The matches lived in my fingers to create fire on the stove. A million teapots screamed at 3 in the morning every day. One night my pilot light went out as I slept with the window open and I ran face to face, lips to teeth, hip to hip with Death. I am not much of a person for fear but it took me deep in its arms. We looked at each other in the dark that night as I coughed up half my life at its feet. I pushed the fear off my spin and crawled to the stove as it clicked and turned it off opening all the windows in 20-degree winter wrapped in a blanket and vomited. A few hours later I woke up closed the window turned the shut off behind the stove. It was an insane time.
Never die of hardwood floor for a minute it fucks with your taste buds.
try to practice my craft everyday.
