"No, no, Simon, that is a cow."
"Well, how should I know unless you tell me," answers Simon.
I paint and I paint and I paint.
Boom! Boom! The sun is getting clear above the treetops.
It is growing hot.
The flowers droop.
The birds are silent.
We can see too much now—there is nothing in it. Art is a matter of soul. Things you see and know all about are not worth painting—only the intangible is splendid.
Let's go home. We will dine, and sleep, and dream. That's it—I'll dream of the morning that would not tarry—I'll dream my picture out, and then I'll get up and smoke, and complete it, possibly—who knows!
Let's go home.