[10 November 2022] Painting incomplete. Soend send spend some time with me experience time and space with me let me make sense of it for [you] or begin to teach you how to see, to cognitively map and position yourself within reality as my creation, a creature in my creation, a human being raised above the the animal, blessed endowed determined, as something more than an intilectual intellectual, [a] being made in my image, capable of love and relationship with me floating in love swimming in love at the waterfall, the last layer i did on this painting was a dark layer and i am feeling gloomy, no particular reason i can think of i can only guess and conjecture; i dont ask myself why when i am feeling well, i only see to ask and question when i am not feeling well, when i feel separated from my sense of well being, why? Frederik Jameson pastiche and nostalgia, there are, there is no innovation of style, all combinations have [been] invented, all that is left is to speak through a mask of dead styles, the individual never existed, no unique style possible that would identify the individual, i disagree here, there are an infinite number of combinations, the differences are subtle, maybe, but only seem subtle because of brutal perception and too little sensitivity. There has been a mutation in the object without a corresponding mutation in the subject, postmodern hyoerspacehyoer hyperspace. A bewildering traumatic loss of bearing and position, sense of position, floating around aimlessly in emtiness emptiness, in nothing, in nothing for nothing exchanges, the great creeping and expanding nothing void, to[o] large now to fill, beyond recall, swept away by breezes, the slightest of breezes, that might distract and make one forget the big nothingness, recreating a reality where the only will is my will, and the dissappointment, frustration, irritation, and annoyance when reality pushes back, and comes up against another will, lost long agao in a bubble, in a pink bubble, where nothing bad will ever happen, nothing will ever hurt, where nothing will ever force me to think of something else, or hold something above muself myself, riding in bubbles of pleasure, panic, grasping for the next bubble before this one birsts bursts, desparate desperate for the next bubble, for eternity for immortalipty immortality in repetition, but unable to avoid the melamcholy melancholy and gllom gloom somhow somehow always pressing in, pushing back, pushing against my will my being my precinct, i need protection, i need security, i need to insolate myself from pain; and i hear a voice and there is somthing something different about this voice, this presence, it says: ‘come to me’