To be fair, this was a hipster café. Still, a nice change from the phone numbers and c*ck drawings. It was hard to read in spots, hopefully it’s true to the original.
“How can I want for something I can’t understand, envision, describe… the vaguest sense that IT is there, just out of grasp. As elusive as trying to catch my shadow. Or more aptly, as though I’m the shadow, blinded by light, trying to decipher that thing that makes me. The image keeps shifting in drifting colors, never settling into an identity I can hold. Like a sparsely drawn character wanting for more lines, light and shading to fully bring it to life. But how can the artist of a self-portrait draw something he can’t see? Even the blind sculptor, driven by feel, is translating visions of the mind’s eye. This is a different kind of blindness. I’m just exploding paint, hoping it will find canvas and coalesce into something beautiful. Something that someone else sees, understands, and can describe. Something that changes this shadow into THAT THING that makes it.” — anonymous