Sleep is a mystery. The ocean of the world resting in the night but never me four more than a quarter in a moment. Missing cigarettes and tea, staying naked looking out at the 3:30 Winter sky. My neighbors must love me. Or should I say the Uber drivers smoking in their automobiles? They play these sounds from Eastern Africa on a timezone that never matches our digital alarm clocks. The volume gives the idea that maybe they are going deaf or begging the night to not wrap them in a Sandman's kiss on their eyes. In a different life, I would make a series of paintings about them while staying on my balcony with a joint in my mouth. But this is not 1992 New York coming of age movie.
No idea how I'm awake right now. My studio bullies are on their 3rd hour of sleep. They want me to stop the world and cook them some chicken. The cat is covering my painting drop cloth this season in hairballs and the dog is deep rolling here self in a scarf on a chair.
Paint, medicate ...sleep...E dificil pra caramba