The hell with not being real. Art has this heart to it and if you can’t hear the heartbeat then I will see you on the other side. Paint requires me and inks but not those who can’t feel the strokes. Too long ago I stopped hearing the sound. I was deaf to my hands and canvas. It calls for all these colors and forms and now I hear the ringing and I’m going into the studio to bathe in it. Freedom is blinding and scary but if the shark gets me then I died doing what I love. To the anger … I can swim forever, can you?