I Don't Paint Anymore. I

Those Promises We Make To Ourselves When We Are Younger, About How We Mean To Conduct Our Adult Lives, Can It Be True We Break Every Last One Of Them? All Except For One, I Suppose: The Promise To Judge Ourselves By Those Standards, The Promise To Remember The Child Who Would Be So Appalled By Compromise, The Child Who Would Find Jadedness Wicked.

I’ve Always Been Uninterested In Boundaries Or Quarantines Between Tastes And Types, Between Mediums And Genres.

But The Day I Can't Shrug Off A Twinge Of Self-pity, Is The Day I'm Washed Up For Keeps.

Music Still Sort Of Hangs Up There In The Sky For Me As This Thing That Moves Me So Much, But I Can't Really Make It. It's Like A Car I Can't Drive.

I Had An All-fear Of Music Ipod, Just Versions Of The 11 Songs From The Record. No Other Songs Allowed.