For the past few months I've become obsessed with Henri Matisse. I've always enjoyed his work and admired it many times in various museums. But a few moths ago it was like my eyes opened for the first time and I was awestruck. His colors, the ease of a line, the all hit me at once. I don't know why and I don't care. There is no pretense to me in his work. No fancy tricks. There is a genuineness that leaves me feeling well after I sit with Matisse for awhile. I'm far too angry and upset with the world and Matisse tells me to relax and look beyond the shit pile outside my door. I'm in love with a dead man and all that he left behind. Merci Henri...