On Pressure
Beauty shines the most when it's surrounded by madness. This pressure, these constraints, my shackles, they don't control a thing, because my freedom is absolute. Limitations are meaningless, just a challenge, a death of the choices might as well be the birth of invention. It is often that the artists create beauty in small power, in a broken canvas, in an empty void. They write with blood that they themselves liberated with their chains, they paint from the gaping wounds that their still closed gnashing teeth opened. Their feverish madness eroding the prison walls, one inch at a time.
But my freedom is larger. So vast that from my cell I can cover the whole world with it. In my madness I can see them, a beautiful land, a beautiful song. All signs reversible, I'm the only one free while you all remain locked up. My euphoria, my love, it all be for you, and for my own archonic role.
