This is what's left blooming around the house today. I brought a jar of flowers to Rusty's funeral by the stream last night. He was the Irish Setter who lived next door. Rusty's person was crying when I saw him out back rinsing off the shovel with the hose.
I'm going to give up on painting. Painting is the worst. What's the point?
No point at all, that's the answer.
I dreamed that Rusty was still hanging around the neighborhood playing with seven other ghost Irish Setters. I could see them but no one else could. They looked like they were having a good time -- no arthritis.
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