2004-06-07 - 10:09 p.m.
It’s muddy, like when you take plastacine and squash them all together, three dollops in a child’s cupped hands. Their face concentrates, head bent down to watch their fingers work.
At first there were beautiful swirling patters, with threads of red and purple. Past that point the thing becomes bruised and the blue gave way to brown slush.
Its no longer pretty, no longer worth playing with. He throws me away.
