After I moved the painting. I went to the hardware store because the
toilet in my studio wouldn't stop flushing. That constant noise while I was
working, the trips to bathroom to stop it. Showed up in the ragged
patches of Monica's face.
A long time ago in Berkeley the toilet of the oblivious writer upstairs
kept running night and day, and every night I dreamed of the Pacific
ocean lapping at the shores of Tarawa beach.