Three swallows and I’m done. It’s way too late to be up at 10:00am. As I look around me, I notice some semblance of order and the chaos. Three (four) canvas present me, five notarized, scattered across the heavy wooden desk someone remembered they didn’t own. A window to the mind; entirely feminine, attuned, and whole. Through my window, the world is alive. My father walks me through the gardens. A story learned to kiss the edges raw and insecure. Even now my hand departs, the sleepless equinox of chase: Picasso in his nineties, Matisse in his eighties. Tripoli in his twenties.