Saturday, November 7, 1987


The cat dragged in a wild canary, a finch really. Its tiny beak opening and closing. I rescue it, knowing it will die of shock but at least, it will be easier this way. Soon, he grows quiet in my hand and I know I will paint him for all those yellows and delicate tracings of white. And in this way he will live forever.

11 /7/1987 ? no date
(written at the same time as my weird walrus dream sequence piece)
added 9/15/2016
last line was added. I meant it, but never scribed it.

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