i think maybe i shouldn't be writing this but its 2am and the house is so fucking quiet it makes my ears ring and i just keep thinking about that tuesday afternoon when i was forty and i was sitting in the cramped back office of the goldman gallery auditing their books... i can still smell the linseed oil and the turpentine leaking through the floorboards and it felt like a haunting because i should have been on the other side of that door... i don't know if this counts as a confession really it's more like a post-mortem of a life i didn't have the balls to live...