I Paint Flowers So They

I Think That Little By Little I'll Be Able To Solve My Problems And Survive.

My Painting Carries With It The Message Of Pain.

Pain, Pleasure And Death Are No More Than A Process For Existence. The Revolutionary Struggle In This Process Is A Doorway Open To Intelligence

... There Is A Skeleton (or Death) That Flees Terrified In The Face Of My Will To Live.

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”.