Art, Of Course, Is A Way Of

I Understand That The World Was Nothing: A Mechanical Chaos Of Casual, Brute Enmity On Which We Stupidly Impose Our Hopes And Fears. I Understood That, Finally And Absolutely, I Alone Exist. All The Rest, I Saw, Is Merely What Pushes Me, Or What I Push Against, Blindly - As Blindly As All That Is Not Myself Pushes Back. I Create The Whole Universe, Blink By Blink.

Talking, Talking. Spinning A Web Of Words, Pale Walls Of Dreams, Between Myself And All I See.

It Would Be, For Me, Mere Pointless Pleasure, An Illusion Of Order For This One Frail, Foolish, Flicker-flash In The Long Dull Fall Of Eternity.

Self Pity Is Easily The Most Destructive Of The Non-pharmaceutical Narcotics; It Is Addictive, Gives Momentary Pleasure And Separates The Victim From Reality.

Fiction Does Not Spring Into The World Fully Grown, Like Athena. It Is The Process Of Writing And Rewriting That Makes A Fiction Original, If Not Profound.