I am not sick. I am broken. But I am happy as long as I can paint.

What would I do without the absurd and the ephemeral?

I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it's true I'm here, and I'm just as strange as you.

The only thing I know is that I paint because I need to.

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.

I paint my own reality.

Can one invent verbs? I want to tell you one: I sky you, so my wings extend so large to love you without measure.