My dear mother, I have been looking at people in the street again. I strip them in my mind — no words, no explanations, only what they do with their hands and their eyes and their bodies when they think nobody is watching. It is the only way I can bear them. And next to them — that dog walking nowhere, this plant smiling to my water, that child playing yesterday with sand — beings that do not know how to be otherwise than what they are. These are the ones that break my heart open. The others — the ones who rehearse, who promise and forget, who perform the feelings they have read about — these machines only make me want to work — some days, quietly sad, other days, in a rage I can only spend at my drawings, my sounds, my automata. I build something from all of it, climb inside it and find, that what I made is truer to me than what I saw.

Mother, I still look at humans without their clothes because I want to believe in them — that is the only reason any of it hurts as much as it does. "My pieces do not represent me. I represent them", I told you once. Please remind me what you told me — just before you passed away — about the possible costs of that.