The wind can cry too... last few days of the fall...sitting alone in the dark, on the cold edge of the bench. A cigarette, it reminds of home. Last time I had menthols i was choking on them.. this one went so smooth right in, burnt through cold air warming up the throat, poisoning the blood and doping my nervous system... having a second fag... enjoying the smoke... maybe it's the cold, but i can't taste the harmful, destroying nicotine on my lips yet. Looking down, i like the melancholic scene: deep, viscous stream of fog erupting through lips, a hand with a fag, long fingers, as usual... perfect manicure, black polish. a ring representing somewhat between an electric and a hydro wave.... leather round the wrist... and the dark around it all... I’d say black ink background on unprimated canvas. the wind is a smoker... it finishes up my cig as I watch dead maple leaves on the ground....

my life is a bunch of sketches of an unsatisfied artist...