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Paintings write the words we cannot speak with lines and shadow, colours and meaning. A painting is nothing without a heart that beats. It slowly fades, complacency stealing its life and turning it into nothing. Nothing but a broken, lost story. I am a broken, lost story

Clouds, clouds, clouds.

I am glad the sky is clear tonight. You can see the stars. Perseus was beautiful tonight.

[Filter: Private]
I am tired tonight, but I would rather spend the night with the stars than sleeping the night away in my bed and wide awake on a night when there are only clouds...

No, I think not.

[Filter: Edmund]
How are you tonight?