I must recall what I want forget, funnel it into my art, take what destroyed me and use it to rebuild. Look at nature. Nothing new grows without the old dying. This is peaceful, a comfort, because from the destruction of my self another will bloom. Maybe I’ll be beautiful.
Lovers in swan shaped boats paddle along the canal. The late afternoon sun shimmers on the surface. Hordes of people wander the banks in various states of undress. They walk dogs and hold hands and hurriedly eat ice cream before it drips down the cone. Simple pleasures cure the lives we lead.
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