Today I talked to him about my soul, in a text message. The idea of a soul but my soul is not here it’s not real. Souls are fictional, I can’t rely on my soul. I can’t find my soul in a painting I can’t find it in my past. Why are all these stupid lies in my life, deceiving me I don’t know what it real what is real I don’t know. I fall to art because it’s not real. It will never be real. It’s only representation. The past is representation, memory is fiction. It’s not real, a photo is not real it’s not alive. Why do I devote my entirety to something that isn’t real I want something real.