This is not fantasy. We are suffering. We are fumbling, directionless creatures propelled only by our ego and insatiable desire. There is no time to enjoy the sickening chaos. There is no room for congratulations. There is merely the unacknowledged fear that fuels our illusions of invincibility. The art is inhuman; it exists without permission or necessity. Artists are not born, they are overtaken. Artistry is a resistant, viral infection. It roots itself in our stomach walls, divides, spreads, and disregards every instinct of hesitation. It is despised, tormented, and provoked. It is shamed and beaten until its scarred skin no longer bleeds, and the hideous transformation becomes irreversible. Survival and persistence is all we know; fame and recognition is only a projection. What elevates the artist is exhausting that fear to test the very notion of immortality. Perfection is unattainable yet remains the state towards which we aspire.