It would never occur to me to draw what I already know. I am no illustrator of long expired fevers, and I am certainly not in a dialogue with the past. The perfect blank of a page, and I should ruin that with history? What with all the divination to be gleamed from the flames of literature, such elaborate displays of what can be, amid larvae and lemurs? A drawing glows as nothing in life ever can. Upon it the language of desire materializes absolute, total. Empty one world and exchange it for a new sultry vision, more voluptuous. Go deep within the labyrinth's weltering tides carrying a sword, and come out holding a severed head. Bite the necks of Baudelaire's birds. Speak to the spectres and become one with them. 

Life is such a meager substitute. You cannot pocket it, cannot discard it. Drawing is the only way to summon up the physical picture of the locale of a fleeting mirage, devoid of all distractions and unhinged from circumstance, mere history. In the end a pattern forms, and poof! a kind of miracle of meaning, even if granted for myself only.