One day, one page, one sketch of GREAT EXPECTATIONS, published daily at 8:40 AM.

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402Homogeneous opacity and the rejection of nuances have always been attributed to the ideal masculine cannon. The closer to that cannon, the less one is an artist. I assume the responsibility for its decline.

401You don’t understand: any kind of inspiration comes from a state of exaggeration, from a hyperbolic mind. Some people can’t handle that, they get irritated by it. They think artists are charlatans. It’s not that. It’s that the world as we see it seems too small to be used as comparison for how we feel. We need some poetry!

400My mind is so soupy and wooden this morning. I’m trying to milk some thrifty tears from somewhere, but I’m afraid I’m just going to sap some enervating ludicrousness. Sometimes, instead of coercing a fruitless dialogue with yourself,  it’s better to make some tea and take care of something shallow. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do.


399The moment a piece of artwork is made known to the world, either to a single person or the masses, it gets judged, classified, put in a box, and forgotten. No one remembers what they had the night before for dinner, because it makes no difference.

398These pages are like little paper boats. I make them, place them on an anonymous stream of water, and see them go and disappear. That’s all. Nothing else changes. Nothing else happens. I just repeat it over and over and over again. I don’t know why.

395It is a mystery why some mornings we wake up with a heavy hunger to knock down everything, alive or dead. Chores feel like a cereal bowl full of ashes. People feel like wilted plastic flowers left in the elements of an abandoned grave. We resent the weather outside, any kind of weather. Our eyes are tearless. We zoom in our fingernails to tune out. We want to end everything.

394There are no more new dawns. We have passed the time when we thought a new beginning was upon us. We are now rushing to study our demise. It’s a new era, the era of self-pity. There are no saviors in the horizon. Nothingness is very familiar now.

393After each day we are a little bit emptier, a little bit heavier, a little bit rustier. We’re greeted by another kind of fatigue, just when we thought we were able to forget yesterday’s. We blindly bite into the ground with such absurdity. Repeat.