Who are you but can never be yourself, that blank, empty canvas, screaming to be touched by the brushes of your liver o o l ; only in secret, your wanting, yearning, longing they bled, like a massacre, such a barbaric ritual of your own torture & now these hands could no longer paint, a dead artist burying her self away/ alas! always a teage r ragedy in the end -- Dolly, 25.11.2018