I got wet with colors but I couldn’t color anymore. I have lost those signs and forms of myself that saved me. I closed all my creation in rigid boxes. I got stiff too. No form seems to appeal to my mind anymore, be it human or inhuman. Only in dreams can I feel, have emotions. This way of being, this way of not feeling is so strange. Some time ago I was expecting the dark knight, the black man, the sublime executioner. Now I’m not expecting anyone anymore. Nobody can color my days. There is no pleasure in living this way but it is inner survival. You paint me but I can’t give myself a new shape.

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