A Pack of Lips is the apocalypse said out loud until it softens. Say the word fast and the end of the world turns into a crowd of mouths. That is the painting. The last day drawn as a pack of creatures, none of them hiding, all of them a little pleased to be here. The winged one stands far left in the night field, one pink line tall, a ringed planet for a head. Gold sits under the dark and breaks through where the night wears thin. In the center an orange coil sends its fire straight into the mouth of the big green one, who takes it the way a totem takes an offering. A crocodile rides the long back with a red imp standing at its shoulder, grinning through hand-drawn flames under a burning curtain. Two daisies grin at the creature's feet. Down in the corner a small house with wide blue eyes keeps watch over something sleeping. The canvas is the largest to date, three meters across, painted flat on a lawn over three days. Blank on a Saturday afternoon, finished by the water on Monday morning. The old gods came fast, and they came smiling.