When you come right down to it, all you have is yourself. Yourself is a sun with a thousand fires in your belly. The rest is nothing.
I first came across that Picasso quote last August in a relatively quiet bridge underpass in Zurich. It was late morning but there wasn’t any sun; a slight drizzle resumed its previous incarnation as a downpour forcing me to run for cover. I wound up next to these words attributed to Picasso and a Pussy Riotesque print with a halo hovering over a ski mask-covered face. Those 15 minutes at this ad hoc gallery, apparently a favorite haunt for creative pamphleteers, would be the most illuminating I’d spent in the rain in a very long time. And not a single ray of sunshine.