There was a car wreck up the street. The ambulances took 10 million years to get there. I heard messed up screeching car parts. Dirty, burnt, tight skin stuck to bent metal smells slipped into my Hebrew lungs. I checked it out. I saw this guy with his head cut. I saw this other guy mangled and perched on the hood of a Chrysler 300. His name was Clarence Tapwater. He took my finger and told me quickly before he died...

"Create a myth around you. And if you keep your mouth shut, they'll beat a path to your door. Stop when things get heavy."

I have, Clarence. I think you were right. Not another brush stroke. Not another swing to the chisel.

In the immortal words of Professor emeritus Sir Bankwell Brokely esquire the third....

"People don't love my work because it's in a form that is most peculiar: Heavy. But if they discard their preconceptions, mother earth shall sluttily bear her averrhoa carambola, sprung eternal from the branches of twisting woods. My words are hearts plucked from their cages and sold like common star fruit. Or finches. But thieves don't love my words because they're heavy. And no fat chicks."

R.I.P. 1894-2007

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