The Heist

It rained and steam rose from the pavement.

I've set my research deep inside folds and I have too many canvases to love. Stuck on The Heist, stuck on WWII, stuck on. No more floundering, just forward movement, when. Set free, you say.

I can't decide to commit a year in advance, let alone a week in advance. I'm allergic, I say.

I will restart my five artworks. I have enough blank pages.