I spent a couple of hours tonight painting the Eagle. Totally obsessed with this. It's part of my illness(or gift). Nothing else matters to me. You're all just tumbleweeds in the Sergio Leone western that stars only me. Or maybe it's the Omega Man? Or maybe I'm Mickey Rooney doing a one man show on Broadway and I'm painting the tepee in my head, backstage, to try and get my mind off the fact that I just strangled my wife of 60 years to death. Or maybe,maybe, I just broke a glass lamp over her head and I'm not sure if I killed her. I could go back and check, but I have to finish painting. Whose to say if it was even me that belted her with the lamp? I've been here the whole time. The tumbleweeds will vouche for me(I think).
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