EKPHRASIS
Watching While It Happens. I didn’t really know if I was painting, or, if I was dreaming I was painting, or even if I was having this sleeping-painter dream in the midst of painting. Sleeping, I said to myself: one should paint about sleeping and nothing else, not about people, not about us, not about life or about death, not about desire or about fear, not about things seen or heard, not about love, not about time . . . and already a pale white head had leaked back into its likeness, inscribing a long comma.