October 10, 1999: Opened shades to a 6am world
I would try to paint the darkness but someone would see it as black. My attempt would be to see the butterfly, the lonely one that flies only at night. To point him out would take away—to paint him in could make him shy. The nighttime butterfly, they say is blind. Not so! How else could he survive? Resting on a stump, the butterfly sits—caught on canvas but never print. His music is tiny, not like the croak of a toad, only a misting of harmony, which is why he is alone. Touched are the hearts that believe, which you will—the moment you see…the nighttime butterfly.