The anxiety over the next piece keeps us awake at night, or, pondering life until insomnia takes hold, we, the creators, are like nurturing a bud that refuses to bloom yet refuses to wither away.
It's the relentless march of time that torments us, and it's those questions about ourselves that drive us mad.
What should art be? And what should I be? Can these doubts ever find satisfactory answers? We, insignificant beings, question the world relentlessly.