Midnight in my mind, five years from now.

I'll never discover a painting. I wont be in some grad school with my nose in a book, researching an artist's every breath to track down a piece. I see my rooms in disarray, but charmingly so. I can smell the aroma of freshly cooked vegetables and basil all over my brightly colored kitchen. The sun shines through my windows peeling with salmon colored paint and it warms the simple tile floor, worn and old. I'm barefoot, as usual, even though I still own a plethora of shoes. I have a room strewn with canvases, large and small, my own originals that aren't etremely good of profound, but the colors make me happy and I like to get my hands dirty. I have an old black typewriter and I sit like my grandfather does writing out my life story. Might as well start as it's fresh in my memory. Sometimes I get called in to work on a painting or to restore a mosaic, here and there. I eat lemon gelato and lay in the park with fresh fruit and my guitar at my side. I drink wine with friends and I go see Palermo play when they're in town. I sit and draw in piazzas, faces, hands, windows... I'll never be an artist like my father or sister, but I find joy in any sort of creation. I often write down my dreams and when I'm home I wear large button-down shirts and no pants. I listen to classical music and conduct orchestras as I walk through my rooms. My hair is long and still as black as ever. He tells me I give the sweetest kisses in all the world, honey and wine.