Here's a 2"x 2" canvas I dashed out with leftover paint after an evening working on a larger piece. (That one is still in progress.)
Sleep is an erratic flock of moths darting to and from a lantern I call "consciousness" but I've kind of stopped thinking it's a thing that needs to be "fixed". I'm of this world, but not of their imposed grid iron. Despite this I'm not free of the overwhelming sadness and pain it creates. Like everyone else I have somehow been complicit just by existing.