August 8th, 2012
The thirty or so reds in front of me. Captivating, in their minuscule difference. My eyes being captured I cannot move the brush anymore. Let it dry and leave it. The red have something I dare not change. I must put down the brush and become indifferent for this difference to consist.
The same, I write in black, is for the man and the woman, for the white, brown and black. The same is for the doctor and a plumber, the artist and the businessman. The same is for the jew, the muslim, the atheist. The same is for the brother and a father, for the sister and a mother. The same is for the beloved one and the enemy. The same is for unborn and living, for the have and have-not.
The same, I write in black on thirty or so reds, is for Lemon, Daniel and Christine.
I meditate, me eyes drowned in red, the brush stand-still.
Must decapitate some monsters at first. In black.