I'll enter some faculty or other, get a degree in a sunject that doesn't interest me but that will help me earn a living. Painting will just recede to the background, and I'll end up forgetting my vocation.

We live in a dancing matrix of viruses; they dart, rather like bees, from organism to organism, from plant to insect to mammal to me and back again, and into the sea, tugging along pieces of this genome, strings of genes from that, transplanting grafts of DNA, passing around heredity as though at a great party.

Written By KHATMA

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