The oddity of being an artist (late-night mutterings)

As a self-proclaimed artist, I often have this urge to see the sadness in everything.  I could even see the sadness in a bouquet of flowers.  I could describe the decaying perfume of a first kiss.  I could feel the overwhelming weight of death, while I watch two lovebirds dance.  Of course, as an artist, I could also easily the beauty in morbid things.  The morning dew that falls on a corpse or the blankness of a tree, hidden by the veil of the wind.  The child-like naivete in an old woman’s tears, as she sees a coffin pass by, on a cold winter morning.  The pen has risen.  Boredom is dead. Long live the arts!

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