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       Today is 23.07.2011 and the truth is: the black exhausts me - I say to myself: Boy: you
have a nice mess in your head  - when I get up at three in the morning: I spread my unfinished
drawings on the carpet: I'm jealous of my past lines (I'm afraid:   I won't be able to do them
anymore) :and I sigh: when I push.
       Black is a question of courage - I try not to think: I take a pencils in my fingers: as
soon as I feel it - here and here more softly - and here roughly - I'll hold my breath - I put
all my attention into it - and if I don't: I lose: I am angry: My person don't work.
       This jealousy - this is a strange hallucination:   I envy this man who wrote years ago:
An idea worthy of burning - I'm jealous of him - I want to overcome him  - it's not me  - I am
now and maybe tomorrow - then and before: that is Him - someone completely different

       I really don't like to ruin - now after years - my dramatic conclusion    - but I read:
Igor Stravinsky called this: the nymphophilia: he tried in his eighty years to dig:     why we
love our last work the most: why we tend to overestimate it.  But no nymphophilia - not even a
good father: who loves just his less perfect child  - it's all for fear:     you won't give it
anymore: that you've already reached your peak .. and it was exactly - you know when.

       The Firebird - like many others meritorious ones - in old age:  began to cultivate this
nice art of a profound moving scam.

       Today is 12.11.2022 and the truth is: that I no longer know who this cute boy was:  but
surely he knew nothing of courage: