As always fobsie blooms in the scorching summer.
Booems are flowing. Scrap books are full of wannabe masterpieces. Like always, Picasso is my only guide. (My search for the last 16 years tells me without doubt, that in the last couple of centuries he is the one artist who could be addressed a master.)
I am saving to buy a scanner so that I can put some of my work in salon.

Absence of woman is killing me. It is affecting my art too. when working on a painting or a booem I become black. My words are black. Figures I draw turns black and they squirm inside my head in great suffering.

Yesterday I tried to draw a female nude from memory, but failed. I wanted to cry. I ran down to the nearest bar and drowned my sorrow in whisky , and slept. In sleep I Had several dreams
of women. Women who were in my life. women I never seen. When I woke up I was tired as if
I ran a marathon. But my heart was floating in the memories of sweet voices and warm lips.
Today I will draw again from my memory.