Do I have talent? I don’t know. But I do know that I can’t sell myself and that I’ll never be discovered in my lifetime and probably not after I’m dead either. But who the hell cares?

I don’t even know what talent means. I suppose it means that you get noticed by other people and loved by them and rewarded by them. That’s for other people. Not me. Not Tony.

Tony’s a boring techie. A four eyes. A nerd. He’s part of the scenery. Not even that. Tony blends into the background. He’s invisible. Forgettable—if you ever notice him at all. That stuff he makes out of old circuit boards and cables? That striking, colorful, amazing and strangely beautiful art? But you only see trash. An eyesore.

No, good old Tony isn’t a player although I do like to play. I play with art, with science, with ideas. They won’t discover me. But they’ll discover that virus I put in their computers. When it’s too late.

Don’t come crying to Tony. By then, I’ll be long gone and forgotten. And who the hell cares?