the Artist

It was getting evening. I went out on the porch to get some fresh air and suddenly thought that I hadn't painted from life in a long time. Does anyone need it now, though? Or maybe it's no longer necessary for me? So many thoughts in my head lately. What can I do to calm down a bit? Should I confess something to myself maybe? Confess what? There's the day before yesterday’ chicken in the fridge, I need to finish it.... A call from a stranger. Okay, whatever. - Hello, is that Mr. * * whom I’m talking to? - Yes, that's me. Who is this? - This is the *** bank security department representative speaking, is it convenient for you to talk now? *end of conversation* Is it convenient for me to talk now... she could have asked me if it was convenient for me to live. You see, Mr. * * we received an alarming call, we were informed that you are not convenient living; you should contact our VIP customer service manager immediately, as you have been a VIP customer of our bank for the last 3 years... But she wouldn’t say that. Who is she after all? A girl from Saratov, Olga. Duchess Olga. Killed all her fucking enemies, that's the spirit. Not the one from Saratov. It's getting evening. I sit on the porch and breathe in the smell of lilacs. I'm ashamed to think about it seriously, but I really want to. I am Mikhail Vrubel, I am the artist. Before he went mad, of course. There is nothing wrong with me in the complete, total, perfect order of things. Tasks for tomorrow: call Olga, another Olga maybe, finish the chicken, start a new painting from life. It got dark.