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 when they think nobody is watching. It is the only way I can bear them.

Next to them — that dog walking nowhere, this plant smiling to my water, that child playing yesterday with sand cascades — 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 complicated machines put me to work — some days quiet, sometimes sad, other days with a smile, or in a rage I can only spend at my ink drawings, in my sound-art, my scores, my automata, or my instruments. I build something every day and sometimes climb on that bunch of works just to realize that it is just a simple hill, but everything up here is more tangible than the foggy landscapes I see afar.

"My work does not represent me. I represent it", I told you once. Please remind me what you told me — before you were forever gone — about the possible costs of that.