What happens when you are the type of person who looks at the world quite differently from everybody else, then obsessively puts these intepretations down as sketches on whatever scraps of paper you can find until you have boxes of drawings stashed away in drawers, cabinets and cupboards?  But these unused offsprings of the restless imagination will keep knocking, wanting to be let out, because they belong on the streets, in houses, in conversations between strangers and fiends. They belong in people’s lives.