There is a tragedy I face as an artist standing between two worlds. My mediums of description are symbolic while what I’m trying to describe is not symbolic. I do more drugs and love more and forget myself, feeling that I am closer to the source I am trying to describe.

All the while I am destroying my powers of description as my brain deteriorates and my memory fades. So that the door is closing and I will come to a point where my abilities (to describe) and my closeness (to what I am trying to describe) meet in the middle of my life when I will write my masterpiece.

Thereafter my powers will worsen like the wings of Icarus burning off as he flies closer to the sun. Finally in my old age a solar blast will return what remains of my attempts to describe, and what I’ve borrowed and called myself will break up and spread throughout the source I was after all along.