da block
Tam lived in his soul; wholly, for the cackle at the end of his laughter. Those who heard it knew it. He lived for the sheer joy of his work and others. Oh his work, for which he suffered, for which he tortured himself. He did not quite believe in how f-cking good he was. He sought perfection that did not exist. He discarded what others would keep and he had a great fear of success; of the opulence and attention and grief it brought.
Most of the art, writing and other major forms of creativity being produced today are simply worthless. These forms merely cater to the imperatives of capital or else uncontrollable impulses...
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[madmimi id=3246405]