I've been busy. In times of extremity I throw myself into work. I tend to make technical progress during these periods, despite the fact that I wish something would just kill me and be done with it.
A funeral procession for Brother Walrus.
And a viking funeral to boot.
This is one of my favorite things I've ever done.
And this one will come near the end of the thing. Maybe an early reveal for concluding scenes, but I'm painting in the order I drew these things, and drawing in order of whatever the hell occurs to me. This turned out alright.
Tonight, my feeble and ill advised hopes were dashed on the rocks like an errant child by the seaside, along with my heart. Times are rough. I'm numb. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. It seems that the gods have decided that I am to toil on in solitude. I give up. Getting set up and knocked down must give causality some kind of great big laugh, but I can't do this anymore. A heart that has only known solitude and disappointment won't persist without collapse, and I don't care at this point to rebuild. The edifice will shudder and threaten fall, and I'll sit in it because the only other option is oblivion. I'm not there yet.
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