Yellow Ochre.

I am stained from painting this morning. It's ugly; purple and black and orange - it looks as if someone's beaten me - colors mixed on my skin, and my hands are all cracked from the turpentine. I have too much to do still tonight, but it's one of those days and I know it won't get done.

It's one of those days where everything you say is wrong. Your words are stumbling and awkward and meaning is found where none exists and none is seen when it means everything. On days like today, first you're sad, because you can't fix anything when you can't find the words and you're a million miles (or about fifty-five) from what's home, and you don't know how make them laugh anymore, and hearing that laugh every day was like coming home, so now you're lost, and then you simply become silent, 'cause you figure that if all you can do is make a mess, you shouldn't try at all. And then you're just alone.

Alone with your empty canvas and colors that won't ever come out quite right until you have happiness in your eyes and can smile again.

Fix me fix me fix me.