Philistine fears! Toilers amid interminable clauses and minutia! What cares the artist from whence inspiration springs, save only that the artist may grasp the clay, mold it, transform it in the likeness of what the artist's inner eye beholds.
Did the sonnet-slinger of Avon care, what preceded the pecuniary plays? Did he writhe at the thought that he re-cast carts into juggernauts, rolling down the centuries? Narcissus-X thinks not.
Narcissus-X rejects the corporate colossus, with its fears and foibles and fantasies. No more will Narcissus-X offer such purveyors of prosaic pablum the geistkinder of Narcissus-X.
A tale of ancient yearnings, hapless hope, futile faith inspired by a doom-star! And these mental microbes, these artless bastions of banality, have not the vision, the inner sight, the aesthetic sense, to take what Narcissus-X offers! No, for it might upset the scriveners, the banausic barristers, the crass councilors of caution.
Narcissus-X turns away from such tawdry trivialities, to face the night. Alone.