This here shall be a work of utter confusion. Attaining that low watermark in life, it's time to blog! I am obsessed with books and films and photos and just about any -ology one can think of. The poetry of the world moves me and there's no sign of stopping.
The raven sky prey’d on by the snowfill’d, blustery clouds,
Unadorned the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
The maidens chained and whipped within a dreary dungeon -
And, lo! ‘twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
“The Devil is as Black as he Painteth” -
O Canvas! wherefore?…
Writing a novel is one of those modern rites of passage, I think, that lead us from an innocent world of contentment, drunkenness, and good humor, to a state of chronic edginess and the perpetual scanning of bank statements. By the eighteenth book, one has a sense of having bricked oneself into a niche, a roosting place for other people’s pigeons. I wouldn’t recommend it.
I have, in my day, wasted a certain quantity of Bristol board and drawing-paper, crayons and cakes of colour, but when I examine the contents of my portfolio now, it seems as if during the years it has been lying closed some fairy has changed what I once thought sterling coin into dry leaves, and I feel much inclined to consign the whole collection of drawings to the fire
Thankfully she folded on the whole conflagration idea. 180 known drawings of hers exist today.