Dear Cornt,
You don't want me to be an artist.
It must be so diahonourable for the family.
A writer?

Sure, it will dishonour your lousy drinkers laughing at me.
Here I am, giving you a dishonourable name.
Hmm... There is a lot of love in there though,
For such a good soul like you
Knowing nothing of love,
Turning even the love of God into waste,
Hatred and misery...
Misery of the soul.

Sure! Who wouldn't just go there and be that way!?

But why Cornt? Why?

Dear Cornt,
You don't want me to be an artist.
It must be a diahonourable thing for the family!
Maybe I'm hurting you with this pride.
Don't worry, I'll have some better plans.
A writer is every kid in school,
Every child that ever wanted to be there
But you punished them with your freedom of being poor
And hungry
Humiliated
Despised...
You did good, Cornt.
I Have a nice firy place in Hell for you.
A bed of flames for you to burn vividly at night...
And a chilly wonderful leaden land to rot your carcass on by day.

But Cornt, dear! Why?