I don’t. I walk—down Prince Street, past the graffiti, the bodegas, the tourists gawking at nothing. Soho’s chaos shakes me loose. If that fails, I throw paint at the wall until something sticks.

I like the mess—smudges on my hands, the smell of turpentine. Digital’s too clean for what I’m chasing. Soho taught me grit over gloss.

Nah, it’s a circus—galleries, street vendors, pretentious coffee shops. Tires me out sometimes, sure, but it’s fuel. I’d rather overdose on that than fade out in silence somewhere else.

Daylight’s too polite. Nighttime in Soho strips away the veneer—neon buzzes, voices echo, and the air feels raw. That’s when the real colors come out, begging to be caught on canvas.

A massive mural on a Soho rooftop—something you’d see from a fire escape, dripping with color, loud enough to drown out the traffic. Art that fights to be noticed.

Could be three hours or three months. Time’s irrelevant when the paint’s wet. I stop when it stops screaming at me—or when the landlord bangs on the door.

I scavenger-hunt through Soho’s art supply haunts—oils from that cramped shop on Wooster, canvas stretched by hand at my Brooklyn factory hookup. Quality matters, but it’s gotta feel like it’s got a story.

The streets of Soho—gritty, loud, alive. I watch the way shadows twist around cast-iron buildings and how people move like paint splattered on a canvas. Chaos is my muse; it’s the pulse of this city.