Four Alarm Fire

At the Exhibit. Hundreds of paintings, Hundreds of people, loud noises.


As I walked I saw one sitting alone, no one near. No one walking seemed to notice it, or rather cared to look at it after the first glance. I went to see it. I was a simple, strange painting.

This particular picture reached out and grabbed me, reeling me to it. I slowly came nearer, eyes fixed on it. I stood about 8 feet away from it--staring. It entranced me with a painful, longing nostalgia. Tears swelled in my eyes.

I drifted into reminiscence. It brought me back to when tommorow was uncertain everytime I suited up. To a time where, my livelihood could also have been my death. To a time where I did good, I saved. To the glory days.

Tears swelled in my eyes. I longed, I cried.

And then, regaining composure, I walked away. Forgetting the painting, just like every bypasser before me.

Trying to forget the past

Introduction

My name is Andy Warhol. I was born in Pennsylvania, growing up like any other kid. When I was a kid I learned to love to read. I love books. I found I had an interest in the fine arts as well. Between the two I had no time for anything else. I spent my childhood drawing and reading. Drawing and reading. Reading. Drawing. Reading.

I have friends, but I don't need them. Being alone is the best.

I went off to college and quit. I got a job, and quit. I got another job, and quit.

And here I am now.