I redraft this quickly and roughly on my short break from work. Nothing more than further notes on the daze of an 'artist'.
Today I woke, not hungover, but lightly drunk still; an evening of plenty of walking, jogging and drinking, preluding, leaving me tensely sculpted, lightly glowing, profusely sweaty, sticky- slightly- and riddled with ailments. Hungry, as always, ravenous as the figurative and literary wolf. My situation is a poor one- but I am not dejected. A beautiful, bright dawning day greets me through the open window, (I recall the late evening's spectacle as a patchwork of azure and amber, crisscrossed by my white window pane and am instantly glad of the fact that I so rarely sleep easily!) I am roused by a lighthearted and jovial phonecall from my father; I breakfast on a pot of strong, freshly grounded coffee and the recreational smoke. The day ahead of me is completely open and free; there are no expectations, and so, I gladly set to work:
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