“I’m not here. This isn’t happening.”
Smoking a cigarette on the balcony, I see a red spider on a subtle spider web by my side. I refuse to singe the spider or the web. I let it be. The spider, the web and me, sit in the swirl of smoke, under the sway of the dried out Bird of Paradise above that has not been noticed by the spider, the web, or me…
The Hungry Artist 