“The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run.”
– Herman Melville (Moby Dick)
An artist is both poltergeist and the possessed, a savage to illusion and beauty. Damned in his nature to act out his creation and make way a more merciful and permanent the vulnerable body, and how continuous his blood does flow.
And from the spirit of all origins there is this demand that casts out a confrontation of thousand selves in a whirlwind argument, whereon the soul and syntax breed an unknown image. An image succumbed to the paradox of that to which there are no words, only a whisper,