[David Salle] once told me that he never makes any preparatory drawings for or revises anything in his paintings. Every stroke of the brush is irrevocable; nothing can be changed or retracted. A few false moves and the painting is ruined, unsalvageable. . . He also once told me of how he often gets lost as he paints: “I have to get lost so I can invent some way out.” — Janet Malcolm, Forty-one False Starts, The New Yorker

You – and I am not using the tedious contemporary convention of writing in Second Person – you find yourself in a guest bedroom in an unfamiliar neighborhood in a familiar town. You have worked a ten-hour day and you are too tired to eat. You lie down and try to sleep. Your thoughts rattle. Each time you think you have found the sweet spot that releases into sleep, you jolt awake.

You give up, pull on clothes and walk out into a smoky twilight. You have no destination, only the knowledge that you have to pay attention if you want to return to the possibility of sleep. The old pines are black against the fading light. Colors have nearly faded away. Something shimmers at the edge of your vision . . .