To Trap One's Self-suffering Is To Risk

Can One Invent Verbs? I Want To Tell You One: I Sky You, So My Wings Extend So Large To Love You Without Measure.

My Paintings Are Well-painted, Not Nimbly But Patiently. My Painting Contains In It The Message Of Pain. I Think That At Least A Few People Are Interested In It. It's Not Revolutionary. Why Keep Wishing For It To Be Belligerent? I Can't. Painting Completed My Life. I Lost Three Children And A Series Of Other Things That Would Have Fulfilled My Horrible Life. My Painting Took The Place Of All Of This. I Think Work Is The Best.

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”.

I Must Fight With All My Strength So That The Little Positive Things That My Health Allows Me To Do Might Be Pointed Toward Helping The Revolution. The Only Real Reason For Living.

I Don’t Like The Gringos At All. They Are Very Boring And All Have Faces Like Unbaked Rolls.