They Thought I Was A

I Paint Self-portraits Because I Am So Often Alone, Because I Am The Person I Know Best.

I Paint Flowers To Prevent Them From Dying

I Love You More Than My Own Skin And Even Though You Don’t Love Me The Same Way, You Love Me Anyways, Don’t You? And If You Don’t, I’ll Always Have The Hope That You Do, And I’m Satisfied With That. Love Me A Little. I Adore You.

I Wish I Could Do Whatever I Liked Behind The Curtain Of “madness”. Then: I’d Arrange Flowers, All Day Long, I’d Paint; Pain, Love And Tenderness, I Would Laugh As Much As I Feel Like At The Stupidity Of Others, And They Would All Say: “poor Thing, She’s Crazy!” (above All I Would Laugh At My Own Stupidity.) I Would Build My World Which While I Lived, Would Be In Agreement With All The Worlds. The Day, Or The Hour, Or The Minute That I Lived Would Be Mine And Everyone Else’s - My Madness Would Not Be An Escape From “reality”.

To Trap One's Self-suffering Is To Risk Being Devoured From The Inside.