I follow inspiration like a dog would chase a bone,
Tied to a string, attached to a stick, and held in front of him, as motivation.
I don’t realize it’s behind me;
I don’t realize that I’m drawing on increasingly empty reserves;
I don’t realize the string and the stick could well be stationary.
The first thing I learned in art history is that beauty is irrelevant,
And relevance in my eye, if I am the beholder.
I’m painting a picture, a scene, inside my head,
It’s so relevant that it’s beautiful,
It’s so beautiful; it isn’t real.