Seriously contemplating an indelible iteration of this image, on the canvas of an appendage.
It'd be best to "let it alone," maybe. Henry'd probably say so.
But sometimes an impulsive act just feels like the life-affirming thing to do. Henry's sun has set anyway.
How long can you contemplate a thing, though, before it loses the quality of impulse? 'Til Tuesday?
The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us.
Only that day dawns to which we are awake.
There is more day to dawn.
The sun is but a morning star.
It's not a matter of duration, it's a matter of emotion
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