churnin sturin choppin and turnin

Today the sea is really messing with us. The seas are steadily building. It is a rough day. Everyone is sour. The milk has gone bad. There are no more apples. The cook is gone mad. There's grey silty sand on the deck. Reminence from the last hurricane.

The sky is falling. The sea is rising. The sea and sky seem to have converged in a goulash of thrash and rain and wind and salty beards. I'll turn to see the sky sturin. I watch and see the seas churnin and choppin. It's almost like Chopin. Impromptu, Op. 66.

28 degrees 46.5292'N Latitude
90 degrees 44.0245'W Longitude

The sea keeps us alive. The sky keeps the sea in line. Very slowly; then all at once things build. They build and the seas crash over the bow and port side. I stand outside waiting for the perfect picture. I stand out side maybe tempting fate. I stand outside in perfect harmony with fate. I stand outside and burn visions of paint on canvas and notes on pianos and words in the air into my mind and thoughts.

The canvas is square, dark, and dreary. Payne’s grey and pathalo blue brush a cadmium red hue in the azo orange and yellow clouds. The crimson spray off the cerulean waves whips the distance against a vermillion backdrop. The colors and shapes. The shapes and colors. The shapes are churning. The colors are sturing. The sea is chopping. The sky is turning.