Watching my thoughts go by and by, like a work of art constantly evolving in a chaotic structure, to nowhere specifically, with no sense apparently.
I put down the brush and look behind the canvas. And as I look, 100 colours drip from my fingers and colour my soul. They dance. This is the first work of art that I can truly call mine – not a copy of my favourite impressions, but my own visceral creation.
I don’t write to be part of history, I write to make it happen.
We copy stuff to keep it alive. It’s an ode to genius, a way to pass on a truth that would otherwise be forgotten. A timeless idea is worth seeing now and 100 years from now. Forgetting it would be a waste. To keep the genious alive and afraid to ruin it, people plagiarise. Sometimes those people are richer than you, and sometimes they’re just alive and you’re not. Whoever they are, those people are just messengers, keeping your ideas alive for future generations. So go for it. Copy me. Quote me. Plagiarise me. Let my words live forever through your desire to be famous.