May 15, 2005
The morning is wide and soft like the powder drifting from the blue pastel dragged sideways across the paper. It is a broad march across our ongoing portrait of life, and its position and size threaten to take the entire picture over. It seems everything and everyone wants control these days.
Pulling Pastel Blue away from the page, I look at him. He is flatter than he was. He is looking down, spindly arms moving, dusting himself off with his tiny hands. When he is finished, he looks up at me saying, "I hope you're satisfied with yourself now."