All my life – my life that has become an extended paragraph – I seem to have been moving towards this one thing; losing myself in images that evoke words and words that evoke images. When I am cold I gather my pain around me like a thick, woollen cloak. It  hangs heavily on my shoulders and the grey wool is stained and sodden with the pain of others. I cannot paint unless I write. I cannot write unless I paint. They feed off each other. They are ravenous. But they gnaw on me too. Is it possible to paint or write anything without anticipating another viewing or reading it? And if it is possible the question is why. Why do I paint/write? And what for? the pointlessness of the act tortures me, just as it sustains me.