The best things in life are written.

It has never been difficult to trigger my inclination towards short, intense obsession. Most often I would wake from these obsessions like from a nightmare; my soul sweaty, my inner heart beating an uneven rhythm indicative of a subtle panic. Upon each waking, I would ask myself: "Why did I walk through the last months of my life completely unconscious, unaware of my surroundings? Why did I waste all that time?"

I own everything.

I have felted, knitted, drawn and painted; stuffed things, stripped others, cut and pasted; tattoed, appliqued, burnt and enameled--I have wasted and hoarded and woven and braided.

And none of these things has left me satisfied.

In the end, it must be words and only words. My bones are made of words, I used to say. But now I want to grow letters instead of hair.

In my next life.

"My attention was drawn to a simple old morning coat. It was made of some remarkable material I had never seen before--a kind of sand-colored, greenish, grayish stuff, which seemed faded and covered with spots and dust mixed with ashes. I had the feeling that a man dressed in that coat would look like a ghost. An almost imperceptible squeamishness but at the same time a slightly terrifying sense of fatefulness stirred in me..."

-Constantin Stanislavski