Rose & Eugene.

I have spent the majority of my day with a cup of Paris in my cold palms and wrapping small gifts in brown paper. Also reading Eugene Field. 

It is possible that I was sobbing all alone in the front room of our house last night because he wrote a letter to his second son to comfort him after his eldest son had died. There was a rare vulnerability in his words. But paired with a strong rawness. I felt like he was pulling my skin off and leaving all my nerve endings exposed. 

I wish I had the heart muscles to love people enough to overlook my own pain.

I am going to go finish storyboarding my Frea story now. I want to get started on illustrations tonight. It's going to be a good one. I can feel it in my bones. Also I had an odd dream last night.

Something to do with shots of espresso in white ceramic glasses, a man's lean, muscled forearms, a young boy who was in a fight club, and a baby named "Rose." I really ought to start writing my dreams down again. Else I'll kick myself for forgetting the good ones.