Its one of those things, really. You think about it alot, you blow it utterly out of proportion and then you just feel pissed off in a very small little way. Small and little, yes, I understand these. Perhaps not the way I used to, but yes, I do still understand. Some things are uncomplicated, some things you just know instinctively how to handle, how not to handle. Others are a little more ambiguous. To put it lightly. Sometimes you think in black and white, more often now, you think in shades of grey. When you paint, you think in dimensions, in heartache. You paint the way you used to before everything got so damn complicated. Painting what you see inside your head never was so simple. But when you write, it follows no form. Like your paintings, the words are mere interpretations, mere impressions. They cen be seen, or not. They can be the source of thought, or they can be forgotten. Imagine there is a tiger in the room...