I always wonder what it means when things don’t mean anything. You wake up one morning, the sun’s shining, and someone has gone through your fridge. My wallet still on the counter, untouched, and a painting left by the chimney- really something, the painting, looked like her, how she folded her hair, when she still came around. Maybe it was her. So what do I do: Call the police? Yes, I need an officer here: My ex-girlfriend broke in to my house to steal my milk. It’s just so… gray: If you can’t place someone as good or bad, criminal or normal, then how do you watch CNN? How do you make sense of them? If it wasn’t her, this intruder was, I’m guessing, hungry, part artist, part magician: The milk gone, a painting left by the chimney, and not a lock disrupted since I went to sleep. Ah! Maybe that was it! Maybe it was me. Maybe I was the artist. Maybe I had woken up in the night, drank the milk, and painted the thing, thinking of her, her origami. Maybe I was a sleep-painter. Picasso in pajamas. There is some kind of metaphor there, I think, that can explain everything.
words by Liam Lachance
colour by Pink Glove