Your head changes. Furniture doesn't matter any more. And it's so sensual. You finish a canvas exhausted and exhilarated if it's a good one, but by morning it doesn't feel very important. It's the next one not yet painted that you care about.
Painting feels bigger than the universe.
It keeps expanding and deepening and if you follow it you expand and deepen. It keeps you in unknown places where all you can do is work your way out. And work and work and work. You work with your mind and chance and your muscles and memory but you have to stay on the edge of what you don't know, forgetting the rest of your life. And when you're working well you really aren't there.