Sunday brings a quiet most humbled thru. I would compare prison to a desert but that would be fraud. The sun, the life, the movement of the desert is far from this truth. Prison is sucked out from. Vapid desolate beige flat white bread toast. Sure it’s what you make of it but that point of departure is so flat. So flat it’s beyond comparison. But you build from & it will collapse. Yes, it will collapse & it can crush. So you move as flame. You dig fro color, humor, humanity, humility & as your fingers get tired you use your feet, your mouth, your ears. This morning, on Sunday Morning Gustave Klimt. Way too short of visual but what there was I ate. I sucked. I licked the tv screen as one might love a beer. Such wonderful paintings. Such a fantastic inhale. Now as I write, 3 Tenors on PBS. I just survived “Nessun Dorma”. Anything I write will not do justice to. Not just Pavarotti, but Pavarotti in here. It was/is so delirious my back against the wall sound all the way up. I was launched into space. “Ground control to Major Tom” & like a naughty Dutch boy I pulled my finger from the dike. I refuse to die in here. Chop off my roots, deny sunlight, water. I will grow & thrive from that I may attach to. Not parasitical rather practical. Received a great letter from real friend. He’s doing a collab with one of my favorite artists. Sent me example of. I’ve read that letter 5-6 times? He felt bad hadn’t written for a while. Fuck that! God I needed that letter. Found my sea legs. Great packets from Kelly. Some money from my brother. I think these guys are singing Edith Piaf. It’s in Italian. She’s French & I’m mad. Delirious & so happy. Not only not losing oneself, it’s bringing something back.