Sweet dreams til sun beams find you
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you
But in your dreams, whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me

The sink is overflowing with dirty dishes, farmer’s market vegetables are strewn all over the counter. Glamour sits unread on the table.

I made a vesper with Lillet rouge and Magellan gin, in the hopes of getting something purple. I did suspect it wouldn’t work - the red is so heavy, the blue so light - but there you go, when a painter mixes drinks, she means it.

There’s no tonic in the house. I was forced to open the Lillet, you know. Practically coerced.

Illustrator is open and I’m trying to make it do what I want it to. A paintbrush will do it better.

I just ordered tickets to see Brian Wilson. All over Manhattan and down Doheny way. Do you love me, do you, surfer girl? (Yes.) (Even if I’ve never surfed.) (I would have, had I an ocean at 17.)

While I’m far away from you, my baby
I know it’s hard for you, my baby
Because it’s hard for me, my baby
And the darkest hour is just before dawn

Now that there’s less in the glass, guess what: it ’s purple.