It Wasn't So Much Destroying My Dancing,

The Words Went Round And Round And Round In My Mind And My Body, Until I Knew They Were No Longer My Words But Something That Had Been Carved Into My Heart. And Now My Soul Was Crying.

It Pleases Me That People Can Be Interactive

My New Year's Eve Is Always 2 July, The Night Before My Birthday. That's The Night I Make My Resolutions. And This Year Scares The Life Out Of Me, Because No Matter How Successful, How Good Things Appear, There Is Always A Deep Core Of Failure Within Me, Although I Am Trying To Deal With It. My Biggest Fear, This Coming Year, Is That I Will Be Waking Up Alone. It Makes Me Wonder How Many Bodies Will Be Fished Out Of The Thames, How Many Decaying Corpses Will Be Found In One-room Flats. I'm Just Being Realistic.

Maybe I Don't Believe Things Myself, As Well. Truth Is Such A Transient Thing...

Criticism On My Works Is Like This: You've Worked Hard All Of Your Life, You Went To Oxford, And You've Done This And That, And You're An Art Critic. Your Job Is To Unravel The "secret" Or Whatever, And You Come Across An Entity Like Me. It's Going To Piss You Off. Because There's No Great Secret, What You See Is What You Get, And Anyone Can Understand What I'm Doing. So, It's Almost Like I Make This Critic-person Redundant, Just By My Attitude, And They Resent Me For That.