Ten.Two Thousand, Seven Hundred & Nine
In the dream, I’m whipping my head around in anger, like I’m biting something. I feel my head jerk and wake myself up.
Watching the light slip through the slats.
Voices floating up from the trail.
The zine is so long that I’m going to have to rethink the paper size in order to squeeze it all into a reasonable page length — and price.
I accidentally turn into the wrong driveway and see the exact type of farm table I want. Alas, that would be stealing, and this car is too small to hold it anyway.
A camera box made to look like an owl.
Well, this is a view.
We’re the loud table in the restaurant that you either hate or envy. Maybe both.
It ends up being just the four of us in the little studio. I love being in an artist’s space. I could do this every day, dirty hands, apron, and all.
Numbers are just facts.
