With a masochistic passion, I give it over and over again. Everything else dissolves, save for a perverse suffering with a smile. I am absorbed in the emotion for which there is no more space left within me. When it ravages me completely, I do not have to relive it anymore. The spasm vanishes and the cycle is complete. The process is laborious and magnificent at the same time. I destroy myself within my own art, so that I could be born better and wiser. Only when I am torn to pieces can I put myself anew.