Hmmm

I could never be an artist for a living. I write when I wish to and I draw when I need to. Art, for me, comes with inspiration. Yes, I could write a story without first having the spark to write one:

Johnny looked over the desert sands. He had seen a painting once, a painting with a white lamb on green pastures, and he was imagining that his surroundings were cool and sunlight, blurring together like the oil on the canvas. But Johnny's family hunted oil, and herded people. Johnny was not old enough to understand the latter, but he could sense it in the air and the whipped backs of the workers.

Right now my train of thought has been interrupted by the newest crazy lady who recently moved into the neighborhood whom I have seen around my neighborhood while attempting to catch the bus. She is walking down my street and yelling to herself at the moment. I'm not sure that I like her. I feel shaken, for some reason, and afraid to focus again. The last thing I heard her say was "I can see you, you asshole!", though there is little to no chance that the statement was directed at me.

Anyways, right now I want to do math, which is good because I have two midterms this week in the subject.

I'm going to go be vaguely creeped out now and double-check the locks.