Alone, walking in the fog along the Loire, in the early morning, I saw him. Magnifico. Crossing. Splashing. Approaching.
That night he appeared in a dream: the Christ of my mural was walking along beside him, His hand buried in Magnifico’s thick mane. Christ was saying something about feeding him: plenty of grain in your stall, we must see to that.
A week or so ago, Judas visited me. In the dream he seemed to be standing at the foot of my bed: he complained about the cold, the falling snow: his face had become scarred; he appeared much older. Feeble.
Alone...I have learned there is something sacred about being alone. I was...
For next Saturday and Sunday
Write to Machiavelli—invite him again
Draw steering armature for bicycle
Collect leaf specimens along Loire
Re-sketch stairway at Romorantin
Invite the King—arrange sketches for him—show him Francesco’s copy of