Sometimes I imagine life to be a river of colours.

I play god by adding new facets to the endlessly rich colour scene.

Violently I destroy harmony, leaving scars in the blaze of colour.
but the colour, so lively to me, flows together again.
Recreates itself anew.

A new colour scene has emerged.
Life paralysed by the moment.

The spectacle starts again.
Again and again I destroy harmony; I soften almost ossified structures and
let them take part in the colourful medley.

The image changes.
I seem to lose control over my painting.

A symbiosis of colours, cigarettes and my unlimited thoughts push me forward.

Careful corrections force the colours into their predetermined ways.

My violent acts cause me pain.

The painting down to my feet with all its infinite depth
admonishes me to greater caution.

To me my sense of aesthetic is pedantic.
Composition? Zsss.

My painting has become sacrosanct.
I drown in paint.

But what about this lifeless something on the ground?
What do I get out of it?
Is it worth the effort?

To save myself from these dangerous questions, I put away the cans of colour,
I smoke a cigarette,
I close my eyes and see vivid colours,
I empty the bottle,
I close my eyes again
and admire the complexity of my vision with bewilderment.