i make art until someone dies.

this is better, i suppose. i have two light bulbs now, instead of one. this is a room in which one will go immediately crazy if a) there is not enough light and b) one is me. there were (are) also too many things. with regards to fatal flaws, i'm afraid i must disagree: immobility, my fear of it and the ease with which i succumb to it, will destroy me. (i trust you'll be ready with arrows aflame, my love.) obedience is enjoyable, but not irresistible. (you must have been misled because i like and trust you. i'm not as yielding as this with just anyone, i assure you.) i have a weekly planner, great art, some of which is lovely and some of which i will deface like a joker, and a notebook, antique post cards, reminding me both of other places and that the past is not nearly as forward as i am wont to think. alas.