Art erupts. 

Doesn’t crawl out of a hole to beg to be taken or liked, as that third shift working class martyr on its latest job interview.

Never. Or its not art. It's just more crap.

Another slavery propaganda.

It comes not from the starving

or the scarcity cult of capitalism, 

not from the hustle of ’til-you-drop machine.

It comes from too much.

Too much feelings.

Too many visions.

Too many ghosts inside the chest screaming to be let out.

Balls and abundance. That’s what art is all about.

A surplus. A leak in the soul. A storm that refuses to stay private.

Nature does it constantly.

Look up - galaxies. Look down - snail shells. 

Look inward - impossible dreams and sacred wounds.

Creation doesn’t ask permission. It spills it all around.

And so does the artist.

Not to sell. Or impress.

Artists must have balls - to give.

Bravery to give to the world what it needs in despair.

Gift of art.