"LIFE IS PAIN, HIGHNESS! Anyone whom says otherwise is selling something."It must be a tad tense trying to talk with me about my work. Love it? Good. Hate it? Hilarious. UNDERWHELMED?!! Well, fucking pack it in, I'm done for. Insecurity doesn't leave. Not even for bad artists, methinks. It mutates like a supervirus circumventing each and every inoculated "thick skin" methodology. I'm weary of trying to figure out who I am. All that matters is the work. It tells me more than all the bottles of bourbon combined. I'm locked in a small room with an impossibly brutish beast. If I can't dance, I'm done. Torn apart. Getting lost and dumber. That's how it feels. Didn't even HAVE much arrogance in my youth, but I feel broken by the momentum with which it heaved me into the rocks lining the shore. Thick skin. Rubbish. No hyde for a thing of celebration is ever proportionate to the centripetal force necessary for said celebration. You break. Now and then. I'd like to think I'm in dialogue with old tough bitches and bastards. Real ascetics. Step on your neck if you stand in the way gals and men. All the movements,they route you toward the talk of true artists if they're good moves. I get it right sometimes.