Henri

The Row thinks me a fool, a man who spends years shaping a hull but nails no keel. Fools! They don’t see how the mast leans just so under constellations I’ll never chart. I paint their faces sometimes—Mack’s grin, Doc’s quiet hands. But I always return to the blues, the imagined harbors where my boat waits. To finish it would be to lose it. And I… I prefer the dream, the boat, the canvas—all perfect because they’re *not*.