Does the sun look bald? I cropped away most of the sky, the trees in the foreground, everything that lent atmosphere. I would not know what a hairy sun might look like, or a sun with company, or a sun with a home among the clouds where it could find a few moments of peace.
I took away everything that belonged to the sun. I do that.
The sun has been sheared. Then I will go for the meat and watch it bleed. But as usual the sun has an ace up its sleeve. It will beckon the moon. In the dark I will lose the sun.
I do not wish to have the last laugh or the last cry. I have framed it, taken away the non-essentials. This is my sun. It cannot be killed. It cannot be destroyed. It cannot be poisoned. It cannot be torn away from the sky.
That was never the intention. All I wanted to do was hold its face in my palm and get burned. With me, loving it would mean not ridding myself of it but of myself.
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