Last night I painted this copy of Rousseau's Child with Doll, which I've been kind of fixated by recently (you may recognize it from my "Dear Dog" postcard poem). The picture is an unsettling combination of innocence and ugliness, which is kind of how this morning is. Today is not a photogenic Sunday-- no picturesque coffee and toast or pretty dust moats in the sun slants at the window. This morning is rain, and a clod of cultured coconut yogurt (I'm vegan now, remember) and green tea I left steeping so long it's bitter. A ghoulish permutation of something still perfectly, preciously pure. I love Rousseau; I love Sundays.