Painting completed my life.
I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving.
I must fight with all my strength so that the little positive things that my health allows me to do might be pointed toward helping the revolution. The only real reason for living.
Tragedy is the most ridiculous thing.
I think that little by little I'll be able to solve my problems and survive.
What would I do without the absurd and the ephemeral?