The phone keeps ringing, and no one is answering. I'm in my study working, and the repetitive noise of the sound is slowly seeping into my solar plexus and causing my blood to boil.
Came across an image of a lion, a wonderful sketch. I hate it when there is no attribution to a painting, photo, or text (though I admit I am guilty myself sometimes). At first I thought it was a work by the great Leonardo. Or possibly Durer. It took me a while to finally locate the artists name. Rubens. Frustrating work.
This morning a mild headache. Coughing fits. Maybe because I wrote about her. Or simply my sinuses are blocked, and the room is cold as always.
I picked up this book (or idea) of an artist, or writer. Ostensibly it was a diary of all his physiological and psychological ailments, the headaches, insomnia, pains, physical or otherwise, sicknesses, all kinds of hypochondriac manifestations, mild irritations, dreams, nightmares, fears, ecstasies, and a list of drugs and prescriptions he was on etc. And absolutely nothing about the work he is composing/ writing. A strange sort of book. A book of symptoms.
Did he actually accomplish the work?
I note it down for now. And will have more to say on the matter later.
