Painting Completed My Life.

I Wish I Could Do Whatever I Liked Behind The Curtain Of “madness”. Then: I’d Arrange Flowers, All Day Long, I’d Paint; Pain, Love And Tenderness, I Would Laugh As Much As I Feel Like At The Stupidity Of Others, And They Would All Say: “poor Thing, She’s Crazy!” (above All I Would Laugh At My Own Stupidity.) I Would Build My World Which While I Lived, Would Be In Agreement With All The Worlds. The Day, Or The Hour, Or The Minute That I Lived Would Be Mine And Everyone Else’s - My Madness Would Not Be An Escape From “reality”.

You Loved A Man With More Hands Than A Parade Of Beggars, And Here You Stand. Heart Like A Four-poster Bed. Heart Like A Canvas. Heart Leaking Something So Strong They Can Smell It In The Street.”

I Never Paint Dreams Or Nightmares. I Paint My Own Reality.

I Paint Flowers To Prevent Them From Dying

Only One Mountain Can Know The Core Of Another Mountain.