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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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My Father's Armchair


Oil on Canvas





Uvi Art Gallery