The walls in the art museum are too white. The floors in the art museum are too white. The ceilings in the art museum are too white. The lights in the art museum are too white. The intellectuals in the art museum are too white.

Or maybe the art just has too much color. The way it stands out against its white world gives me vertigo. It, among other things--waiting for Dirty Harry, for one--makes me want to vomit. The rest of the art reminds me of vomit on a porcelain background. Maybe I should. I'll call it one of my greatest installations. Art is vomit. Especially Andy Warhol's.

Art used to imitate life. Mimesis: That woman or that boy or that pile of shit is beautiful. I would like to reveal that beauty with my hands. Now, life imitates art. If I am going to have an epiphany, it had better be in the falling rain, or I will not scream at the top of my lungs. If I am going to fall in love, a Damien Rice song ought to be playing in background, not Iggy Pop. I think that Andy Warhol gets this. He gets it over and over and over again, upon various screens.

I am staring at a car accident, unable to move. Saturday Disaster. In silver. If I must confront the person who gave me herpes, changed my life's course, it ought to be in front of this wreck. What day is it?