Bleakly banal bandwagons beckon. How easily Narcissus-X could step, step, step, step up to the side: climb in and be carted away. Lovely lucre.
But no! Narcissus-X is artist. Not for Narcissus-X the tawdry trappings of crass commercialism. To be constrained? To be directed? To daub and draft and draw in dreary, dismal, debilitating drudgery? No!
Narcissus-X is artist. Narcissus-X creates. Narcissus-X perceives, ponders, weaves dark threads among the gray.
Narcissus-X, paid for putting paltry pablum before the masses? Ha! No such demeaning insult will Narcissus-X heap upon Narcissus-X. For Narcissus-X is artist. And art must be sustained.