In the beginning was the unwritten word, and the word was with the brooding writer, and the word depresses the writer. The word seemed to have been stuck with the writer since he can't get it published.
A bad writer's parody of the Book of John.
But there's something about the artist's life, ain't there?, that's inseparable from solitude. To create is to bear the weight of solitude upon yourself while the world communes within a glowing orb you can't penetrate.
Sounds depressing.
But a necessary condition for lasting work to flourish.
Great art emerges in times of severity, not prosperity.
No wonder the greats died young. They burned up in a few short years what others would economically consume over a longer lifetime.
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