'call it winter of the heart, the time between...'

been reading and sleeping mostly these last few months. Hanging on to the threads of my work with a bit of life drawing and a few words written in my sketchbook. 

But I have finished these wax poems so now I can reclaim the garage, get out there and do something new. I was reluctant to finish them and say 'this is it'. I am unsure of them. The words, the lack of image, the gentle mist that wax throws over everything. Unsure. But they are mine and they are done.