I painted this six years ago.  Now?  Still the same.

History
His Story

Past is prologue
Now is then

And she took up the fragments of her torn spirit and stared at those ragged threads of colors tangled into webs of no-thing, just scramble-shot nothing.

Sitting in the piddle puddle of disassociation, she could not even cry because the cry-well was dry and that collective rain became an extinct species.

And then the puddle became a screaming river, scraping her into jagged rocks and splintered limbs all crammed along into the damned wide salty ocean full of spill and swill and disappearing land forms.

Lost.  Everyone and everything everywhere lost at sea.