A Painter's Last Pence

I am not much of a sentimentalist.  I try not to have attachments.   I clean out my physical surroundings frequently as a form of existential detoxification.  Life is cluttered as it is with thoughts, there is little need for baubles that lack significance.  So imagine my surprise a few weeks ago, when sifting through a Webster-thick stack of old writings to toss, I came across this sketch--a last pence for the painter who had run out of sustenance.   It stopped me in my tracks.  The quick, gestural, and carefree quality of the lines . . . the subtlety of a figure . . .  an implication of thought and emotion--these were the reasons I salvaged the small, pocket-size drawing.  Maybe.  I am not sure.
I guess that is where the beauty lies, in not knowing.  

I like that.