Caustic Familiarity

Let’s assume im coming down…coming down. The amber glow of the virgining day invading my space. my sanctuary. the light segmented by the half-drawn curtains spill across your half-drawn body. and it’s dark. Indigo. The night is over. Rest my head upon which i rest my hand and i sink into the fibers of your carpet floor. I am ill, weak, tired yet unable to sleep. The trace smell of whiskey coming from my breath–no….from the bottle inches away; a monolithe of depravity from the vantage of my eyes, perpendicular to the floor. and i just lay there and lay there and lay and there and there lay watching as i sit up. Warmth texture and weightlessness and im back….Back wall creme white, textured with variations of purposeful imperfections. A picture crudely mounted of mountains surrounded by a gold frame mounted on the back creme wall. I stare and look to the farthest mounted…thesmallest mountain. Is that the furthest point of creativity for the artist. Rather, was the perameters of the rendering the extent of the artistic vision? Or was this a glimpse into an entire universe.