The creative process
Any scumbag can say “I am an artist.” Any scumbag can be a God. Among them we even have the creative-un-artistic, the prissy, the closed. But sometimes we must range and risk a little for inspiration. My advice is to find your songs in darkness. Get in there. Roll in dirty allies, chat-up sketchy strangers, copulate with every slutty muse to get a poem. Gather scabs and scrapes for your diseased pallet. If you tear your veins for art just know, providence won’t lift a golden finger for you. It’s time to stop painting over the previous picture. Take heart and gouge carelessly through the layers. Drink generously, pickle yourself. Intentionally replace precious memories with frazzled nothingness. Be blank, clean… Now you’re almost purged of hope. Now you can cry alone and worry like you should. Now you can properly face the stark, impoverished morning in weakness… The canvas is still blank. You haven’t done a thing, scumbag! You’re on the path to greatness.