Diary and Haiku

After looking at Guernica, the crowd at my elbows, their tour guide in my ears, I am coming out against history painting. The magniloquence of terror. The demand for submission. Far more delightful is the magic of Joan Miró, whose rooster crows in a landscape with it in it.

On the balcony
carrying a bowl of cereal
cock-a-doodle-do

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