"... Im so tired, I just hope that next time I closed my eyes I will never open them again, I sit in my studio and tries to draw, fill the pappers with line after line but it all turn out to flat. The ink doesn't want to share its universum with me and is as deep as a closed door. My interesst for details in wallpaper, exotic bird feathers and small plants are intiutivly transformad in to two or three colored patterns on the uneven cutted paper. An artist that leads the work with a group show Im participate in tells me that Im to ruff in my way of treating my drawings and that they are hard to sell. I dont know what to say so I just finish nailing them to the wall. But it seems like its not my decision to take. I should have done it before I got this sick. I had an old hunting rifle in my house. I remember one day waking up in the sofa in my living room. The smell of urine was the same I can feel now. I was wet and so was the skin of the sofa, next to the me the rifle was laying. I couldn´t remember bringing it out from the locker, but apperently I had, it was laying there. Like a bad joke, on a group critic with students from all the years at the academy, a fellow student takes a picture of one of my drawings, next time the student presents its works it have changed and I remember the photo and Im suprised over my feelings and reactions over authorships and autencity, or not suprised, more like a challenge opening my eyes, seeing that weapon just strenghted my idea of what kind of coward I was, I couldn't even take my own life. All thouse thoughts gets away when I hear something in the darkness. There's someone in here. I'm in the little french village st:Erme and my class attents the PAF spring meeting. There's a five hours long lecture/talk every day with super intellectuall people, Im trying to attend, but I don't understand the talks. It feels like I'm better out doing the dishes and lifts down benches to the basement.
-Hello I say. No one answers.
- Hello who is it? no answer. But the dark room changes in to this
greyish room, and I feel a hand on mine.
- Hi its me. time to get some breakfast a voice say. Breakfast I think, death would suit me better...."