At this point I picture myself as a crazed old man, spending every penny on antiseptic sprays and soaps. It isn't a happy picture, but I just want people to stay the hell away. I assume that they mean the paint. They live alone and their mind burns with saved-up images. There is no answer.
Some people are just insane, and others are just born receptacles for their sickness.
But someone took the time, and when you get right down to brass tacks, a lot of it, to make what they're presently destroying. And then that someone spent an untold amount of time translating thought into painted image, whatever it was. And presently, it is being destroyed by three guys with cigarette lighters at two o'clock in the morning. It's a tragedy, all of it, because someone stepped through everything, a whole series of someones actually, to create what you've just heaved a brick through for the one thousandth time. It's nothing new, you little pieces of shit, and somewhere in some fucking factory, someone is watching liver spots grow like spilled coffee on the backs of their hands, churning out TV after TV so that you, the spoiled whining uninspired malcontent, can smash it and shout some slogan, or maybe show a disinterested crowd your dick.