What else is there but to lie down and be ground up by the cogs of the great machine. To be spat out, writhing and formless, into a sea of gray. Why paint with colors no one sees, or sing words no one hears. People want blood, so give it to them. Let them reach through the bars and peel off skin, muscle, and fat until all that remains is forgotten scraps and bones too hard to palette. Let them eat until they lay bare the beating heart of your work. And let them sit back, contented, while you languish in the prison you built around yourself.
13 июн 2022
