Trifle not with the muses, for they are solitary abstractions of illuminable depth. Narcissus-X mused not long ere, musing, plunged past cerulean syllogisms of light and air, through lowering reveries of woe, to darksome prospects and dolorous vistas of endless melancholy.
Is not suffering art? Art suffering not? If, artist, thou art suffering not, no artist thou!
Narcissus-X is artist, poet, dark brush. Dark brushes past like an exhalation from ancient caverns: caverns of ice.
Art calls! Narcissus must seek once more grottoes of velvet coal, caverns of crystal oblivion, shores of a sunless sea: there to board dark-masted bark of silent crew. For Narcissus-X must, once again, glide beneath obsidian skies and dream of night.