I do not wish to live anywhere. This is a peculiar state of being for me, for I am someone who always wishes to live somewhere, usually somewhere other than where I am presently, and usually with great romantic surges of wanting and imagining. Presently, I am here: here. I do not wish to be there. I do not wish to be here, especially, but I do not wish to be there, either, that is how completely and thoroughly I am existing within painting, within the act of painting, and within the paintings themselves, which stare back at me as I stare at them, we are like gruff mute animals who size one another up throughout the minutes of the many days we are together. It like a death, but it is not death, it is just the death of living. What remains is all impulse, all compulsion, all arm, all hand, all mind, all doing, all creating, all assessing, all rethinking, all doing, and some sleeping.