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A woman’s hair moves at one-tenth its former speed, like lace curtains billowing off a shock of window on a most uneventful day, the way you sometimes might see summer rain-- a wave of linens hanging from the sun. And the older you get, it doesn’t part, just compresses, as you start to dwell beneath the shed of moments falling over you--pile of wet autumn leaves. Someone finally asks, “Can you ever be in love again?” But you're at an age when you must confess, the distance to this life in love is too far for, “Yes.” And then you lose your fear of death.
I would like to thank all those who have ordered the Instructional Video for painting with Alcohol Inks. Little did we know there would be so much interest, and so many orders. I hope to have Part II available soon. Stay tuned, and may the inks be with you.