“I’m an artist, too,” they say, “… a piss artist.”

Their uncontrollable guffaws grow distant, and they wend their merry path to self-destruction. I smile. I can draw this comparison, too. (Close your eyes and ears.)

Like that whiff of alcohol, a Nameless Something drives me to art. Drives me to take a road. A road that leads… maybe to ruin. Certainly a road with no map, no signage. No well-trodden path. (Don’t follow me.)

The voices of reason are clear: there’s no money to be made here; you’ll starve; you’ll freeze. There’s no future in it. It’s not a sensible thing to do. (Don’t send your children down this path.)

I spent a life clinging to the good raft “Sensible” as the sirens of non-sense called to me. Called me to communicate in their grammarless tongue. I have loosed my grip and let the currents take me. (Don’t do this at home.)

Here I am then. Walking the less-trodden path. (Avert your gaze.)