Money muffles passion, you see. We cling to it, weeping, leaking weird nouns and verbs about how we cherish the cool cocoon of cold hard cash, forgetting about the shallow grave where we killed and buried our art.
We forget, amidst the chatter and the chaos and the fodder and become an only sometimes-true friend to our notebook and our paintbrush; we become the boring, wretched thing we used to hate for being false and turn ugly, quickly.
Itβs terrifying the flip-flops that a rumbling hunger will make.