Amateurish accolades on artistic atrocities! Laurel crowns, Laurel and Hardy, duck soup of the masses hardly whets the aficionado's appetite. Grim guerdon of common esteem: Narcissus-X seeks this not.
Crowd-pleasing commonalities do not art make, nor pandering popular perceptions. Art flows from Narcissus-X, for from Narcissus-X rush the inner visions of Narcissus-X, artist. From ebon depths to obsidian skies, Narcissus-X is beyond philistine blandishments, beyond crass commercial considerations, beyond avant-garde conventionalities.
Narcissus-X finds no surprise in vulgarians' vague verbiage on viewing the art of Narcissus-X, for who can understand the recondite heart of Narcissus-X, but Narcissus-X?
Narcissus-X ponders: Can Narcissus-X withhold art from those who know not art, and, artless, yearn for that which they cannot know? May Narcissus-X withhold? Withholding tax comes back again, but art is long and deep.
Narcissus-X must brood.