It was always the artist and their arrival at any kind of a canvas that would cater to them that really got my intrigue, gathered it all up, and volleyed it about the place like a goddamn puppet-show of the mind: always trying to figure a way to train it in(whatever IT was) and to say.. perhaps exactly what they might see themselves. Said artists, I mean. To make a mind-winding and, what’s more, stiflingly enthralling literary impression of a visual art form, or forms, that I don’t myself carry. And to, what’s more, cause it to sound and feel… otherworldly? With a rapid-fire rhythm which can only really be approached and appreciated if you turned up the bloody pace of the audible, which kinda bugs me by this stage, that it seems to need to be adhered to somewhat when it comes to writing stuff. This rhyme link! Agh! Always why I really did not take to novel writing and that sort of style. Why I far rather to analyse journalistic prose, to see where the real feel for emotion via words comes from. Because.. poetry in its most basic definition is, for me anyhow, far too organised and thought-out. I don’t get it. And I also absolutely get entirely how everyone can actually write poetry, if they wished to put their mind to it, that is. That’s fair game, and that is also precisely why I want to always gain a ladder up and a step or ten above the rest. That’s competition, no two ways. A perfectionism that sits perfectly well within me.