More paint on canvass. Earlier I mentioned that I seem to experience all criticism as variants of condescending spite and patrimonious sarcasm. Perhaps it is my own flat and mundane sentiment regarding myself, or, the two solitary decades.

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In truth it is now 2am on Sunday, January 10th. I have been ill and alone for something like twenty years. This causality for pessimism only brings my failure into greater fruition. I seem to imagine the lynch mobs of my fright; emoting incomprehensibly as I remain incompetent in sufficient self reduction to satiate.

I am, when hopeful, in fact asserting that anyone could smear and smudge similar typifications of rarely accurate symbolic forms. Photorealistic anything from actual to concocted reality has destroyed art. In that sense I value my palette knifed oils; so often mixed with sand and joint compound or elevated with wire mesh and wallpaper adhered cheese cloth before the oily mixtures.