I did not believe in your shapes. Love became exhibitions between portrait and landscape; I the desert, you the solitude. I stayed, still, to be more the night. Waiting for the dawn's angels, indigo in morning. Profound sinners, children, we stretch across Chicago to the sea. We would dye squares in this formula: You, me, you -- without words, without faces to relieve us, we spoke only in color, softly blurred lines, thoughts; noise embraced the wish of images. You, my storm. I deferred, slow swirls by the edge to rise and torture. To provide a sequel. You kept nature prisoner. The world out of focus, identity lost within the privilege of being the painting.
5 September 2000