I thought I'd drop by and vomit a little, this seemed as good a place as any for that - it actually

seemed the best.
There is a bug eating my brain, there is a bug eating my stomach, I am writing this all as I am

too sleepy to run around, yell a little, do anything else, and as I cannot sleep because all of it is

gnawing and punching my abdomen when I roll around.
Not so long ago I came here and submitted a few droppings, and then I left. Did that last even a

year? Every other day I woudl turn up and look around and something would grab me around the

shoulders and try to tell me to get the fuck off.
I think I should make myself clearer.
There is a very slight element of pride when I look at some of the things I submitted and simply

ever made, but mostly when I dare to gaze longer I still can't jelp but belieev it's complete shit.

You see, this bug in my brain pushes me to try and transcribe as close as I can my insatisfaction

in regards to this world, it wants me to craft something that wakes me up or to wake up anyone

but I think this bug is too smart for my pea brain to even understand it.
Like these mediums/spirites of Outsider art who worked following the instructions of voices, I

respond to a command screaming at me to GET THE FUCK OUT. Just out.
What bothers me most when I look at some of the pieces here is that I can blatantly see that I

just let myself fall into ease most of the time; the ridiculously simple trap of pompousness, the

devastatingly pathetic idea of a concept.
Oh fucking lord, how I hate concepts!
But wait, there is more: I hate artists. And yet that is what I yearn so hard to be at times. Well at

least what it is meant to define. I want to be able to see and know. I want to be able to

experience. Because I don't think the artist creates the art, he transmits it.
There is still one piece I am not only proud of but satisfied with as well in my gallery:
baby Grace Blue. It isn't actually

meant to have a name but I still gave it one, you know, because I always have to spoil

something when it's actually what I wanted.
Anyway. I have a little something for the people here, because I know that might interest some

who like formulas to get sense out of ideas. It's all totally wrong and shit of course, because I'm

the one trying to retranscribe it, not the little bug, that nasty fuck. But here it is:

art isn't an image
art isn't a painting
art isn't a few fucking words
art surely isn't a bloody concept
art makes me fucking sick, physically ill
and art just isn't art.
we're not artists. at least I'm not one -well, not that kind- after that, you decide.

Art is something that happens. It's the realisation that there is something important and beautiful

going on and that you're not in it. It's your struggling to get there and to break down all this laugh

of an illusion while you're at it. Art isn't important, life is, and I'm sure not living yet and I don't

think I know many people who are. But goddammit I'd like to have lived before I die.
And that's where the bug is smarter than I am, it's pointing out to me all the ways that lead me

there. It knows where life is. And I'm just too damn dumb to understand apart from the big lines.
Now before I leave you, I just want to tell you that this is all shit and it's not what I wanted to say

when I started writing. Once more, I coudl'nt really understand. But then again, maybe I

shouldn't have been writing when I coudl'nt sleep, even though that's when it's itching.
Oh fuck it.