well-oiled machine

I can’t think at length anymore. Everything is short city blocks of thought. This morning is cold, my skin is peeling. I’ve been told to stay out of the sun, but who purposefully avoids warmth? There is nothing in this post, I’m just out of practice. Gold skin, but underneath just skin and bone.
I was listening to Laura Marling in the car and she said to me: Why fear death, be scared of living.
Damn. Yes. Damn.
But in that I wondered why some people have more artistic lives than others and I concluded it’s because artists live through their fear. They do things because they are afraid. Fear is a spark plug, a catalyst – we feel fear and some deep magnetic rib pulls us to it. It’s not a recklessness. We don’t wander down black alleys without protection. But everything we need is inside – guts, heart, bone, shards. We are pistols and down. Machines in tune to every pressure change.
The artist hears the howl, investigates with a poacher’s ax and raw meat – to feed or kill.

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