a solitary bus rests at the corner. words spilled through my head as i paint on the floor. a disgusting picnic of roses. that's what i'll call it. and i want to be an artist. i am an artist. i'm not an artist. i can pretend i'm an artist with old worn brushes and a plastic cup full of water. real water color paint with real water color paper. i can pretend to be an artist and glue my picnic of roses to existance.it's beautiful. it's ugly. it's mine. mine. my shoulders ache. ache. ache. ache. you probably already knew that.