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The True ArtistThe true artist is a very, very fragile soul. They may not look it or act it, but they break easily when it comes to their forte. The writer would sooner die than show you what writings they have in progress, the drawer would feel as if they had been invaded if someone went through any of their sketchbooks.
The sketchbook or journal is the soul. The very heart of the artist and if someone should even dare to touch it, the artist would wither and their gift would die. It would be something like if someone reached into your chest and ripped out your heart, pawing through the chambers and then shoving it back at you, saying, I dont like your style. I didnt understand this bit, either. Who is he? Is she his girlfriend?
No one understands the art but the artist. Do not attempt to even fathom what goes through their mind. Theyre not you. You cant even begin to imagine what inspires them, what makes them tick. They are a person and deserve the
RoseOnce upon a time there was a beautiful princess named Rose.
She was a beautiful and gentle creature, her skin and hair whiter than snow and her eyes blue like a summer sky. The only thing was that Rose felt too much. She knew no grief of her own, yet her heart bled for the sorrows of others and thus she suffered for it, going for days without eating and mourning for losses that were not hers. For, if she felt even the distress of others so acutely, her own would surely kill her.
The king, her father, sought to protect his child and thus locked her up in the highest tower away from anyone and anything that might in the least negatively affect his daughter. Secluded from the worries of the world, Rose grew happy in the simply joys of growing a window-box full of intricately blossomed, perfectly white flowers. The flowers also bloomed around the foot of her tower and the breeze always smelled sweetly of the fragrant petals.
She would croon to them under the silver light of moon well into
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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