Number, Drift, Frame

The wood came to me before the drawing. I ran my thumb along its grain—salt rough, old stains, a small blue nail head caught under a splinter. It said: draw within these limits. The rain left the studio air damp all week. Paper wouldn’t dry. Every line smudged more than I meant. The ticket in the left corner—unfinished in that last balcony piece—wanted its numbers found again. I traced them, lost them, let the chalk dust break and run with water. Sand stayed on my hands. There’s a line on the beach where the ball lands, but today it’s just the sea wall and a ticket, half there. The frame knows where to end. Light kept changing. I let it decide which edge would hold the blue. I heard someone call out the ferry number, outside, just once. Nothing stayed put but the grain and the damp.