The thought and idea of creating a masterpiece as such is very alluring. Very… it means pretty much everything to me, actually. It’s always been the thing which burns a fire bright inside of my heart and mind. Since a very young age I have wanted to grab all of the words I can find by the collar and shake them back to life, back to a place and pace of brand-new belonging. It’s not for everyone. Maybe it’s not even for anyone as such but rather… just this ocean of emotion for myself to read with time and pleasure and peace and quiet. Who knows where the scribbles might ever go. Do I care? I dare to care much more about how the whole process manages to settle my own mind more than anything else, really. It doesn’t need any readership as such, doesn’t need any kind of validation. I became my own validation-giver a long time ago. It’s not an ego thing at all. The ego part of it, I think, never really existed for me. Egotistical artists are a waste of a great talent, in my eyes. I don’t care to give any advice on anything with this particular endeavour. That’s not my job, hobby, whichever. My task, let’s call it, is to write the most beautiful stuff I can manage to write and on any given day. That’s it. It means the world to me. To lose the ability to scribble in the precise way that I do scribble, if that were to ever happen, how might I feel? Heartbroken, mind-broken perhaps … Like I had lost a limb of sorts, even. It’s that important to me. Yeah, it’s written with my own experiences coursing throughout and that’s instrumental going forward for me. I love it. I love what I have pushed, pushed, PUSHED myself to create over the space of the last, hmm… eight years.