Oh hell! I'm sleeping my days away and i can't seem to get myself out of bed, haven't touched a pencil for months and i can't bring myself to do anything about that or anything else, it's like i'm in the cellar of a house with a fire in the attic rapidly eating its way down, and i'm doing nothing to get out even though i easily could...or could i? If only when lying in bed i looked like her, up there, then things might solve themselves. But an oaf like me must make it happen, damn it! Why wasn't i just born a cat?!
Detail of a painting by J-B. Greuze. the Frick collection, New York
