L. suffered from a dilemma; yes, a dilemma--thinking too much, too hard then not enough.  While the exercise proved straight forward enough (that is to a certain point), permitting L. with freedoms and liberties to paint, scrawl, scribble and (if necessary) erase, at times

bleach over any desires that, while perhaps not superfluous, may in hindsight be painted, described, lambasted as 'over-the-top' for what the perfect day (if and when properly erected) set out to be, L., after a period of fifty-three years, still refused to arrive at any terms with regard to what this day (as a matter-of-fact) should be.  

Some days started well enough--whether by rolling out of bed, onto the trampoline of a circus or stepping out from his Bushiwick tenement door, not to face the familiar Starr Street stoop that overlooked Maria Hernandez Park, but to sincerely squawk (in awe) at the vatic demesne of Yosemite's Dawn Wall.  

And yet something seemed always to go awry, speed away off pace and just plainly wrench any achievement of L.'s advance into the sublime off to meet the shit and eggshells of the steaming compost pile.  For instance, in the case of the circus (where L. was still fairly wobbly and in the throws of finding himself on trampoline) this white tiger would appear followed by a pink lion licking her chops.

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