Paintings in mind.

Long strips of clear sand beaches.

An aquamarine sea. Choppy at times and calm at others.

A harmattan thatched roof of a little shack.

Cane chairs with ripped upholstery and ketchup stains , sinking into the sand.

A rickety table with a red checked tablecloth.

Chipped white porcelain plates with greasy fried fish.

Sand in my hair, my mouth, my feet.

Bottle after bottle of cold cold beer.

No meetings, no deadlines, no artworks to chase, no strategies to make, no rushing to work, no rushing back home, no cooking.

I'd give my left arm to be off to a nice beach place for a holiday.

But suffice to say... its just.... paintings in my mind.