“Down the road there is an old man who sits in a chair under the porch of his front door to enjoy the sun. He is very old. In fact, he is dying. And because I know this, every time I pass him I pass the time of day with him. I tell him he is getting brown in the sun. Or he asks me about the price of the vegetables in my shopping bag – once he lived in the country – and I answer him at length and with great warmth. Why do I do this? It is a natural reaction. Soon he will die, he will be dead as Laszlo, and I want him between now and then, and perhaps even at the moment of dying, to have good thoughts, not of me personally, but of the living, of the world he leaves. I want to give him reason for thinking the best possible thoughts. And so it has been for every artist.”

There’s a poem in my head like too many cups of coffee. A pea under twenty eiderdowns. A sadness in my heart like stone. A telephone. And always my night madness that outs like bats across this Texas sky.

“The real question is not where do ideas come from but where do they go.”

Fashion Friday 👔 Rami in red velvet? RED HOT 🥵🔥🌶