There was a painter. He kind of lived in his own world. I think somewhere in Texas he was on an island. He considered himself a fisherman by trade. I don’t know that he lived off the fish, there must also have been money coming in from something else. And I think he thought that he was some kind of an angel.

He made these paintings that were unlike anything else. They can’t really be described. But they gave me a disorientating sense of déjà vu, from which I received some measure of comfort. I don’t fish, but I think of the fisherman from time to time. He is dead now, and his paintings are sometimes featured in my dreams.