I love it when you laugh.

I'll keep this phrase in mind.

As always, I love your poetry and your art. Art is often that strange freshness you find in others, and we don't think it's because of those limits. Boundaries, universes. Your answer never occurred to me. It's ugly. But everything is relative; my artist's soul wants to return to the body, from limbo, from Styx and its Fates pulling invisible threads.

Solitude is good nourishment for letting the mind wander; art has always been born from some of the human disadvantages. Do you know any good artists who were rich in their origins?

If you know them, was the work truly theirs, or did they pay others to write or paint their whims?

I love it when you laugh.