I am just astounded to have to report this, but on one particular day, time really actually just stopped dead. It left me standing there with jaw dropped eyes filling up and lips just parting and just as I was about to speak. And so no one had seen my voice - least of all me. Queued up words just hung there and never could be said. The only good thing is, the lips just wouldn’t press shut and the eyelids kept on peeping. So I wasn’t dead really, I was just asleep for a hundred years or more. But sleep took away my dreams until I even forgot what I had forgotten, so I didn’t miss it anymore.

So to find out, I have learnt to speak in paint; to hear tell from a world that delivers experiences to me as a crowd of colours and shapes running and shouting with each other. But just now, only just now, I am finding some of those waiting words. The Legs Eleven series envisions a story in the language of paint. I have translated it into a story in the language of words and the extracts shown with the paintings illustrate the points where the two versions collide.