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All I wanted is to be like my art heroes, Akira guy, Alita guy, Yuasa, BASQUIAT, Yukio.
I failed, I have no talent, I am nothing and no one, forever.
I must end my life, join BASQUIAT in death. An artist, I have no answer to the obvious question, the longing for experience, the recalling of pain and accomplishment, in all my time I have painted nothing but grotesque in their incompetence examples of who I am, empty, violated, tossed aside, inferior. Within my own prison made of me, there was once a need for art, it's still beating, the only thing keeping me between the living.
My heroes, my art heroes have died, they don't seem to mind anymore, I could learn that from them.
