On Sorrow Floats Laughter.

I Wept When The Muse Ulla Bent Over Me. Blinded By Tears I Could Not Prevent Her From Kissing Me, I Could Not Prevent The Muse From Giving Me That Terrible Kiss. All Of You Who Have Ever Been Kissed By The Muse Will Surely Understand That Oskar, Once Branded By That Kiss, Was Condemned To Take Back The Drum He Had Rejected Years Before, The Drum He Had Buried In The Sand Of Sapse Cemetery.

Granted: I Am An Inmate Of A Mental Hospital; My Keeper Is Watching Me, He Never Lets Me Out Of His Sight; There's A Peep-hole In The Door, And My Keeper's Eye Is The Shade Of Brown That Can Never See Through A Blue-eyed Type Like Me.

Art Is So Wonderfully Irrational, Exuberantly Pointless, But Necessary All The Same. Pointless And Yet Necessary, That's Hard For A Puritan To Understand.

Often I Had To Imagine The Things I Needed. I Learned Very Early To Read Amidst Noise. And So I Started Writing And Drawing At An Early Age.

The Human Head Is Bigger Than The Globe. It Conceives Itself As Containing More. It Can Think And Rethink Itself And Ourselves From Any Desired Point Outside The Gravitational Pull Of The Earth. It Starts By Writing One Thing And Later Reads Itself As Something Else. The Human Head Is Monstrous.