He has no method to it; he squeezes out the tubes on to his palette and then tosses them on the floor. His paint smudged fingers obscure the labels, making it impossible for anyone but him to know what colour the tube once held. He knows them by touch now, by their contours, obtuse angles, weight, the way the caps close, he knows his paint box just like a lover knows his paramour.
As the pale winter sun melts in through the Venetian blinds of his studio, he peers through cataract dimmed eyes at the blank life size canvas in front of him - waiting the first caress of his brush, waiting to come to life.
REM . . .
do dragonflies dream