“i am very, very alone,” she said. there was an air of desperation in the words--despair. when i looked in her eyes i saw hopelessness. “art is not a companion, or a friend. at best, it is a feeling. more often, it’s a drug.” she began to turn away.

i knew if she left now, with that, it would stay with her forever. “which part? making it, or feeling it?” she didn’t stop, and i started to walk after her.

“does it matter? you can be an addict or a dealer, but either way you’re a slave.” she let the door close behind her. I stopped walking. enslaved by art. it was romantic, really. in the fatalistic, melodramatic way all artists were.

maybe we are slaves to our art. but aren’t we all enslaved by something?