And my mouth opened, and I said “I’m a painter.”
I’ve been puzzling over that bold move by my mouth since it happened; when something like that happens, it bears scrutiny. Of course I wish I were a painter, that part isn’t a mystery. I badly want to paint Momcat, in her little reed boat, and Kyle, and Trillian, in formal dress, on the bank. Would she have anything with her? Would the river be calm?
Do our desires shadow us when we go?
Can we still be defined by what we loved, or who loved us, after we are gone?
