I have no idea what I’m doing. No wait. That is not true. I have some ideas… but all this artist poet stuff is a kind of childish game I play with myself and the world around me. Am I motivated by success or revenge? I cloak it all in the cosume of mastery and vanity. I don’t know why or how or what or who (to blame). I can babble away with the best of ‘em. I can swing both ways including only one way. All this identity stuff. Ideologies. Make me feel a simultaneous wtf/omg. Astounded and annoyed. It’s all a big mind game and maybe Lennon was right: Love is a flower, you gotta let it grow? In some sense I am the most honest man who ever lived but in another even my honesty is one big fucking lie. I’m a con man at best and at worst: an unemployed dictator with a PhD in kraziology. Back in my motor-racing days I was known as the last of the late breakers. There was an accident. My chassis was extinguished in the fire and they thought I was dead. They found a body but it was never mine. Showed up at my own funeral dressed as cat woman. Sat in the back, holding back my laughter and mockery. Time was finally on my side.
