Light explodes momentarily through the dark amber curtains at the far end of the shapeless room. The two black dogs whine and wag their tails. "Not yet!" I say firmly while keeping my attention on the best selling writer Edna O'Brian her old voice streaming into my space grates the BBC World Book Club. Today for the first time I thought, "I love my computer!".

O"Brian contends that writers are not happy people and that happiness is not a priority for her. Marvelous, I am a visual artist and happiness is not a priority for me either. I lock myself away from love, society, and entertainment to struggle with the details of a painting miserable, alienated, passionate and malcontent.

The dogs are restless, the deaert sun has downed behind Las Vegas. but it's still in the high nineties outside. The air burns the lungs and drys the senses so I wait until it is completely dark and then stumble around the endless bland housing estates where garages face the streets. There is no history or culture here so walking in the dark is my living metaphor for the emptiness.