How Does a Painting Happen?

Thick pads of transparent blueish mucus settle at the base of my tongue. I am continually expelling it from my body.

It’s three o’clock in the morning.

Time for distraction.

Time to paint.

No flowers around this morning to act as a base for a painting.

I remember my mother’s Chinese snuff bottles.

Among her collection of small objects,  I remember a transparent blue Chinese snuff bottle.

The painting process has started.


The painting tells me what to do.

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