Dear mother, I'm out on the street again, and again I find myself watching people. Again I strip them bare, in here, in my mind, in silence. I see what they do when they think no one's looking. Only that way can I stand them.

Along with them, I also watch the dog wandering without a leash, I feel how the forest vibrates in the rain, or the waterfall with no sand left, surviving in that child's two hands... they are entities that don't know how to exist any other way than the way they exist. The world doesn't join them, nor does fate — I join them, because they are the ones who break my heart.

The others, the ones who rehearse, who promise and forget, who fake feelings they've read about, those complicated machines only put me to work, in silence, but with emotions that won't leave me alone until I put them into my drawings, my sound art, my scores, and my automata. Every day I make something, and sometimes I climb up onto this pile of works, only to realize that up here everything is more tangible than the fog of that distant landscape.

My work doesn't represent me, I represent it, I told you once. What did you answer me, before you left forever, about the cost I was going to pay for that — do you remember?