I never understood art exhibitions. I went to one, was in one, whatever. It was an exhibition. For art. Pictures on the wall and people holding food and glasses and mumbling quietly about everything. Occasionally people would point me out and I would try to shrink against the wall.

The wall is my refuge. Have you noticed how I try to blend in? White shirt so maybe I can miraculously merge with the wall.

Compliments. I hate them. Always. Have. Shit. Did I turn that into two sentences? Sorry. I didn't mean to. But I don't know why people are pressed into praising people. I feel... obligated. To join in, I mean. You say something good so I should probably say something good back. Isn't that what people do?

What do people do? With their hands and their feet and and their eyes and their faces when they don't want to be noticed or when they do. How do they do anything? Does everyone think like this? I think everyone's lying. They make stuff up and live life and try to make it seem real. They don't realize what I do. Everyone does this. I know. You should know too.

Oh, there, see? That man, the one with no hair and the wrinkles. I'd like to paint him because I think he has a story. Or maybe he doesn't. I can make it up though. It's why I like words, I like making stories and lies that people accept. Why is that? I was always taught to never make a story, never tell a lie and I hear I am gabbling about a life that only exists in my head.

I live in my head. I know the walls of my life better than anyone else yet I am consistently corrected by concepts created by me. Do you live in your head? Do I care if you do? Do you care if you do? Simple salvation from a stranger will not serve souls. It's still life, isn't it?

I was telling you a story, wasn't I?

The wall. It has cracks. It tries to talk to me but I know it only wants to swallow me up. No, that wasn't my story. The art. Gallery. No, exhibition.

I don't paint for you. People don't get that. I don't want my paint up on walls for everyone else. I don't paint for others, I don't even paint for myself. I paint for the same reason I write. I need to get my ideas gathered together in one place. Otherwise I get distracted.

Thrown off balance.

I alliterate. Think of words starting with o. Ostentatiously the ostrich operates orange o...

Crap. That's crap. Shit, what was I on about? What was I proving?

I forget. I'm sorry that I forgot. My adulterous thoughts, they fly around the world. I can never keep them in.