The indifference, if not hostility, with which I am treated in the artistic world in general – music and interactive fiction essentially – is probably a blessing, a chance offered to me, on the one hand, to develop, by force of circumstance, in a totally autistic way, my own universe, without the help, certainly, but also without the influence of a warm "environment" to surround me, but also, on the other hand, to escape the pride and the delirious pretentiousness of the artists who obtain at least a minimum of recognition.

I AM deliriously proud and pretentious, but fortunately my pretentiousness has ceased to be indexed to any idea of my artistic qualities or of the interest that my work should legitimately arouse in the public. Even if I were to do nothing more than draw with felt pens on sheets of paper, write three-line stories full of mistakes, and record two-note songs repeated in a loop, I would still be more and more proud and pretentious, because it is my identity, my being, that becomes my work over the years; art is only a poor means, a path like any other.