"I lay down on my bed instead, the guitar to my side, neck of the instrument just touching my own, the spokes that stuck out hitting my shoulders. My mind wandered as I laid there, over to the paints and pastels that I had seen at his place. I relived the vivid images in my mind over and over again and was still blown away every time. The amount of creativity, imagination and feeling that were on those walls astounded me. I couldn’t believe that he could just let himself bleed through a paint brush and have it spattered all over the wall for everyone to see. I could never do that; the painting or sharing my emotions in such a complex way. I was too scared to just crack myself open and let everyone go inside. I couldn’t do it for myself. I didn’t want to pick apart my feelings, taking what I loved or destroying what I hated and put them on paper. The fact that people would see it scared the shit out of me. And if I had done the work, carefully picking those feelings, it would be as if I wanted them to see that side of me. When really, I didn’t. Those poems or ranting or drivel as he was saying that I wrote – that was only for me. I didn’t write or do anything, to please other people. I didn’t even do it to please myself. The thought of anyone reading that shit scared the crap out of me. I had never been one to be afraid of much in my life, coming from Jersey you learn to suppress fear, but God. That was like my worse nightmare right there. I didn’t want people to know how I was thinking. How come they would be allowed, if I didn’t even know half the time?"