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The Paintings

Work fast. Attack. Dance. Paint, scrape, scuff, scour, scratch. Use a gloved finger, rags, chisels, nails, and kitchen tools whose disappearance was lied about. Paint, rub out, paint.

Not exactly paint. More like draw with waxy sticks of oily pigment. Crayons, really. Distilled color married to the sweat of seeds and the plaster of bees.

No concept, no thought, no plan. Witness to a face plunging toward its soul. Then stop. Guys don't like being fixed. Carve signature into the raw anti-finished wetness. Then Irish Whisky neat by the stream where the terrier chased a bobcat.