she won't get up.

but we must all be roused from our bed, especially to put our art up at the library. so i shall go now and wake the sleeping artist. and we shall carry her portfolio to the library, pick our parking spot in the empty lot, and knock on the glass doors.

hear the echo of our footsteps down the corridor and descend the stairs, where we'll take up every little piece of art and caress it once again before housing it behind glass for others to see.

these things that decorate my bookshelf behind my chair, so empty now.

she just got up herself, and said,

why didn't you wake me up?

which makes me laugh, because i do not like to be waken up (and truth be told, neither does she). it is far better, FAR, FAR better to allow me to wake up than to get tangled up in a day with me after being waken.

so, i hesitated one more moment and avert disaster of one kind. to flirt with disaster of another. we are now rushed, and here i sit, writing.

her vehicle is paint and pencil, clay and fabric.

mine, the word. she knows this. perhaps she realizes this is inviolable as my demanding she stop painting or drawing or creating at my whim.

but i will sign off and shut down before she has to fight. and we are nearly late and must away.