I commissioned my artist friend
to paint
a starlit evening on our
nursery ceiling.
He struggled at first, pacing
the room,
obsessively scaling his
ladder. The job
was beneath him, but he needed
the money.
Something had to be done, so I
burned
his obscure punk cds into my
computer,
so he could listen to his music
randomly
shuffling and without
interruption.
He finished the very next day,
but instead
of the tranquil twilight I
envisioned, I got
a maelstrom brewing around a
moon more
menacing than an axe-wielding
lunatic.
I paid up, made the nursery our
bedroom,
and my wife and I have never
slept better.
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