I have not called myself a writer for years. I still paint but I don’t put in the work required. I’m not 15 anymore. Bombing or piecing a couple times a year doesn’t count. Catching white outs and rocking stickers doesn’t add up right. The way people do it now a days you need to live the life or become a spectator. It doesn’t matter if you used to write. No one cares. Get dirty or die. Every now and then though you get that urge and scratch that itch. Nothing will ever make you feel as good.
April 2011. Manhattan.