Peter used to say that an artist’s job is to make order out of chaos. You collect details, look for a pattern, and organize. You make sense out of senseless facts. You puzzle together bits of everything. You shuffle and reorganize. Collage. Montage. Assemble.

I am not loved. I am not a beautiful soul. I am not a good-natured, giving person. I am not anybody's savior.

At first, the new owner pretends he never looked at the living room floor.

He was assaulting the world by assaulting himself.

The on­ly thing I know is ev­ery­thing you love will die.

The world will always punish the few people with special talents the rest of us don’t recognize as real.

You grow up to become living proof of your parents' limitations. Their less-than masterpiece.