I Paint My Own Reality.

My Blood Is A Miracle That, From My Veins, Crosses The Air In My Heart Into Yours.

To Feel The Anguish Of Waiting For The Next Moment And Of Taking Part In The Complex Current (of Affairs) Not Knowing That We Are Headed Toward Ourselves, Through Millions Of Stone Beings - Of Bird Beings - Of Star Beings - Of Microbe Beings - Of Fountain Beings Toward Ourselves.

To Trap One's Self-suffering Is To Risk Being Devoured From The Inside.

People In General Are Scared To Death Of The War And All The Exhibitions Have Been A Failure, Because The Rich Bitches Don't Want To Buy Anything.

The Only Thing I Know Is That I Paint Because I Need To.