When You Stop Inventing Reality Then You

I Lived Rough, By My Wits, Was Homeless, Lived On The Streets, Lived On Friends' Floors, Was Happy, Was Miserable.

There Is A Kind Of Expressed Love Which Is Easy To Subvert. When A Figure Is Loved For Their Deeds, Their Conquests, Their Heroism, Their Goodness, Their Love Of The People, These Are Easy Enough To Destroy... But There Is A Kind Of Love Which Is Felt For Apparently No Reason... A Love, Inspired, It Seems, By The Gods, Which It Is Impossible To Fight, Distort, Destroy, Or Weaken. In Fact, The Attempts To Destroy Such Loves Only Strengthen Them. And To Do Nothing Allows Them To Continue To Grow At Their Natural Pace, Inexoribly, Till This Love Becomes A Wide And Silent Adoration.

People Are As Healthy And Confident As The Stories They Tell Themselves.

Who Knows, Maybe This Whole Planet Is An Asylum, A Penal Realm. A Place For Hard Cases.

Painters Ought To Be Mute. Speech Is The Enemy Of Expression.