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Painted a year
after my father's death, this picture depicts the home where
I grew up and where my father spent the last twenty years of
his life in utter loneliness. The following is an excerpt from
'The Blue Wolf' written two years earlier.
It is high
noon, but the blinds are drawn. Only a thin plume of daylight
reaches in through a crack, and writes a bright dot against the
shadows. If - like him - you waited long enough, you could actually
see the dot bleeding slowly, steadily across the bare floor,
rising up over the wall, becoming longer and longer still, until
at long last it would fade out, like a sentence unfinished.
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