When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.
I paint what cannot be photographed, that which comes from the imagination or from dreams, or from an unconscious drive.
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I paint what cannot be photographed, that which comes from the imagination or from dreams, or from an unconscious drive.
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burnt by the sunof your mouth, I__ unable to speak or paint you with words