Where did I go, you might ask? Where did I go. It was strange and dark, but it's all better now. I'm on Prozac. -- There's a sweet reek of turpenoid and liquin and that's heaven scent for oil painters. The call of an ancient dance floor, repurposed to an art gallery, is achingly familiar, and I attempt a few twirls. The art model is slightly depressed and is going to therapy more often. She asks if she can burn sandalwood, and clutches a sunflower because she's trying to surround herself with positive things. George talks about a paralyzed painter that painted with his mouth. Marion makes Larry take a photo of me in my lolita dress because she's that enchanted with it.