(Painting hanging in the home of Kat Chapman)

Melancholy. First thing in the morning. I open my eyes, I lie there, I turn toward the window, I stare at the ceiling. Deep sighs. Compressed heart. Luke doubts I am a romantic. His experience has not won me that title. And yet, it is there, that side, that wistfulness and fragility. I am that sad color today. And yesterday. And the day before. Even though the sun is shining and I went hiking. Even though the cause is elusive. Blue.

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