apollo on the air

Today on Apollo on the air, I’m here to speak to you of art.

On the creation and love of poetry and prose—the bindings of my very soul.

On such an occasion, when, dear listener, my muse finds me,

you may find me:

  1. writing lovely poetry,
  2. writing terrible poetry,
  3. writing lovely music
  4. writing terrible music.

Moreover, when my muse finds me,

the conditions MUST be as such:

  1. It will be sunny out. I solely run on vitamin D.
  2. My sister, my dear Artie, will be very, very far away from me.

Yet, dear listener, I must confess:

I hardly write anymore.

Whenever I wish to write my laments, joys, and hopes, I find myself lost.

Wherever do I begin in a day where everything appears to be written?

Even those lines, I’m sure, have be written by some emo singer, or world-weary college professor poet, or whomever or whatever.

It’s lovely, interesting, fulfilling, and all that, that people can share and think together and blah blah blah on YouTube or Newtoob or whatever.

But what about the artists?

The professional artist who has to SUFFER with all this ART?

If it even be art!

Fine! Call me an art SNOB. But, I—I demand compensation!

LISTENERS, GOVERNMENT, THE REST OF YOU HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE GODS.

I DEMAND COMPENSATION.

It’s so hard to be an artist.

No, Dionysus, I see your call. You have Hamilton.

I HAVE JUSTIN BEABER.

 

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