What separates us from the madness, is designed much like the shell of the LM *, and if life passes by it, you realize how it curls. Our madness protective film is created from repetitions, a (ehrlicherweise!) stupid though aesthetic rapport: Pinstripe, fish hooks, houndstooth, paisley, polka dots, and so on. Life is an expensive tailor the dress for our internal unstable patients - and so the robe sits mostly like a glove. But precisely, it curls, the linen-cloth flapping in the wind, flailing his tie around his neck and shoulders, and sometimes one of the Fedora flies from the head, which is quite normal. We were quite born naked, at that time. Today one does his first breath in an evening dress or evening dress. You can say: Oh, my nerves costume? This is perhaps déformation professionelle of the last millennia! Is it not true that all those outside the institutions kinky mutants, actor and Salon cripple the worst kind? Is not the madness of the press sometimes like blood through our summer clothes, the only sensible response to the remarkable coincidence chains of world history? I feel the most honest, when I despair of the Grey, and I the fingertips of the universe feel on my back, only in moments of rapture when I allow myself to let go of thought, from that were written, analysts have been done to slaves, the damned humanized and slowly, ever on the disappearance; find myself in the delusion, in the tragedy, in the frenzy of joy and so on. It's not a question whether the artist has to be an alcoholic to be an artist you have to be alcoholics are artists, no, it's about whether would be madness for not a very useful state for the people. Therefore, I prefer me sometimes too easy.
* (That aircraft touched down with the man on the moon, was the weakest link in the chain of the Apollo missions. The shell of the spider-like landing vehicle - a membrane between the space and a comfortable interior - was little more than an extra-thick aluminum foil. A pocket knife she would cut through with ease)
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