I’m joyful for all my stupidity
I’m lucid for all my folly
I keep drawing flowers and cumulus clouds
all the times I re-invented
All the times I’ve adjusted
were all just fine tuning
to a piece that constantly changes
with millions of composers
I won’t reach a point
I don’t have a destination
this work will never be done
I’ll never sign my name when I’m finished
because happiness derives from imperfection