I smell ink wash-clouds in my mental pastel skies. They crash into each other and leave bruised and muddy smears on my mind's horizon.
I examine my work by the dying light of those mangled rainbows. The routines of one thousand executions is as stymieing and it is satisfying.
I can't seem to disassemble this feeling of incompletion. I cannot find satisfaction in my imperfection, today.

11:52 p.m. - 2015-08-05