The artist tells me that she has to travel to another world anytime she creates, and it makes her sick, like home sickness; when she travels to that other world of genuine creation, she misses the world of custom and past history of proven correlation in which we are accustomed to living. So quickly she rings up a man to have in her bed to feel his real body, or meets her real friends to have real conversation about real things, or to grab handfuls of the real grass and smell the real trees—letting her real body experience the real world that someone else created, vacationing from playing god herself. But this is only the halfway solution for an artist, she tells me.

The greatest pleasure is the combination of the two worlds, instead of fleeing her created world to return to the real world, the inhabitants of the real world come to her created world to live in it for a while and it becomes real for them. Then she transcends from a halfway human to a full god, a world creator. And she delights in her own reality substantiated by those who come to live in it. But of course she cannot live in her own world; she prefers to live in His just as much as they prefer to live in Hers. But she must still create, because she is an artist and could not do anything else.