There are times still, in a distant retrospect which plays in a backward looping circle of endless memorial transitions between who I was and who I am dreaming to become.
I faintly remember watching them laugh when I painted my first masterpiece.
‘It is too blue, as if someone whitewashed it with hurt’
‘It is disfigured and asymmetrical.’
‘It is sad’
‘It is boring’
In limited ways that I could I have talked to sculptures and paintings than I have to a string of people.
But there is always a glass wall that I hit my head on because what belongs to this world will always be here and what does not is beautifully nailed into frames of gold, beyond this wall.
Infinite boulevard 