When I become interrupted from art-making, as I am now, the inspiration doesn’t leave me. It tortures me. I hate it, because it won’t shut the fuck up. It nags and nags to be made, and then when I sit here to do it, it coyly hides itself and wants to be coaxed out. I don’t want to coax it. I want to smack it’s bare shoulders and drag it into the light where all of you can see how terrible and sublime it really is. Then I want to kiss it full on the mouth and make it read itself back to me over and over, until I’m sure again it was all right for me to be born; if only I can do this. If only I can do this.