The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him, a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create – so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.
In a room without a window, I am trapped. All I hear is false, forced laughter made by humans pretending to be hugely successful, wearing the tattered sack of a wealthy beggar, thinking their facade will hold up like an old whore pretending to be nubile.
All I hear is the sound of a gutted donkey coming out from the mouth of a fugly whose appreciation lies only in the color of money. This is a city of infinitely stupid whores and they all worship a god named Profit. They would sell their own kidney if it fetches a decent price; they would whore themselves away for a nickel painted in fool’s gold.
Placing a creative soul in this city is like sticking a man over hell’s fire and watching him slowly roast to death.
The beast was here all along…