fatigue

Everyone who has ever felt great works of art dying inside you, raise your hand.

If you have any strength left.

It drains you. That poisoned well of perceived potential that looms at the edge of your property. Wherein you fell as a child and were sadly rescued. Into whose depths you stare stupidly for hours quoting Dickinson. The echo chamber where words you might have said ring unhallowed and hollow.

You've raised your hand. But you will not be counted.

Because there is no point.

Because Art demands a sacrifice. You are unwilling, and therefore unworthy. The women of Thrace reached for your head and you said, "I'll shut up, thanks."