I will not say it here as clearly as I feel it in my heart, and I know that when I was there, I wasted so much time that was mine to waste, but I miss the land that was before, all the fears of the walls falling down, they were not my walls, all the fears—but freedom was not one of them—I am no longer free and I miss what once was. It is not the monkey’s at my feet but the shelter over my head, the warmth of the couch, the time that is stolen away with each day that I try to push one more minute out of before my bowels turn traitor and I can’t stand any longer, before my body rejects all forms of consciousness and I fall to a lonely respite. I am not lacking the passion, I have just painted it into the tiniest corner and today it looks as if I will have to abandon the painting for who knows how long.