Dear friend,

Would you travel the world with me? To the mountains of Peru, to the ruins of the Berlin Wall, to the butterfly gardens of Thailand, to the moon and back? Would you eat anything and everything edible from every country with me and taste all the whiskeys and Tecates of the world? Would you play the guitar for me while I fall asleep? Would you salsa with me at professional salsa parties and on the roofs of elementary schools after midnight? Would you drive with me through the city at night and stop by janky hicktown shops to buy overpriced English chocolate bars? Would you cook exotic and experimental meals and bake delicious mint chocolate raspberry cakes with me? Would you take me to sand dunes overlooking the ocean, the stars overlooking us? Would you escape with me on spastic journeys for absolutely no reason?

Would you?

Could you?

A message not intertwined in an esoteric tale concocted to confuse you

Contrived self-pitying may give you the emotional foundation you necessitate to achieve the stance of "bona fide artist", but it will also grant you the worst of perspectives. It'll consume you when you least expect it. A self-administered drug of sorts.