It's been a long time since I spent the evening in my room, keeping company only of myself and my thoughts. Possibly because it is a potentially dangerous situation: a disquiet mind, when stripped of distracting noise, looks for other areas to occupy itself with. Goodness knows there's enough dark twisty areas in here to use and take advantage of.
I'm restless. I'm like a little kid on christmas eve: I want it to be tomorrow so badly I can't sleep. So, instead, I'm drawing. Compulsively. Obsessively.
I have a muse, now. I have my faith back, and passion.
Alas, still no white oil pastels.
In lieu of that, I'm left with textas. Yes, those fat washable, non-toxic Crayolas that you give 2 year olds. Little compares to the child-like excitement of buying and using instruments of ones childhood.