Anything can happen: anything. Or nothing. Who can say? The world, monstrous, is made that way, and in the end consumes us all. Who am I, administrated or no, to have the audacity to survive it?
“Those who paint a landscape for the sake of painting a landscape, those who write a symphony just for the sake of writing a symphony are in the best of cases good craftsmen. I cannot conceive of works of art other than as manifestations of their makers’ limitless enthusiasm, despair, sorrow, anger, revenge, scorn, and sarcasm.”
Béla Bartók