A spontaneous, unplanned little controlled drawing is like a dream memory, which is why I can never be mad at myself for its form, content, text or as associations. Please be seated, stretch out your feet comfortably, raise your head up to the ceiling, and watch whatever drama is playing on your internal stage right now. As I’m writing this I’m watching construction workers making a maximum of noise in the neighborhood. I presume that at least some of their motivation is to wake up the bourgeoisie from its undeserved early morning slumber. I concur.
See also: One Week On The Happy Isles, A-Minor Magazine.