I don't feel old, but am starting to comprehend the passage of time. I can tell, because between the noisy, idiotic teenagers in the street beneath my widow and my own public image, there fails to be any similarity between us. There is almost none of the insecure, modest gray mouse, happy with the beautiful lines and mixes of pigment nobody will ever see, left. I am starved for money and glory and so very pissed off - the kind of pissed off that comes with wise age. Everybody else's

I wish somebody had told me ages ago, when I was still convinced that being on the receiving side is just as much a privilege: nobody wants to have sex with a furniture megamarket manager's assistant - everybody wants to have sex with an artist.. covers is no longer good enough for me. There are so many great authors out there, all of whom gradually bury their passion for light and shape under sedating, good-enough day jobs, for ever going to other folks' exhibitions, feeling pointless and old..