The color of walls, not the colors of pictures, is where I want to transport myself.

Pictures hurt even in joy – the power of moments is also the power of longing, all too real is all too ideal.

For a moment, I don’t want to see. I don’t want to know. What I have seen is remarkable to all but me.

I was there once.

It’s only a happy memory now, a window that can’t be escaped.

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