Why do I become tone-deaf to my own imagination? And a lighthouse to guide their wings forward. I sit back and wonder what would work for me? Implosion, explosion, exorcism, Qi energy, herbal remedies, gospels, temples, churches, dopamine, serotonin, sunlight or moonlight It has to be somewhere. The cure. The cure for not torturing yourself— for weak memory, for recycled art, for enhanced magical delusions, for an undiagnosed inflated ego. It resides in me somewhere, the dark matter of the universe that makes me unrecognisable, like a flattened dime. It is somewhere in me, a really cool colourful crayon box that loves to paint my bones, or the walls of my exiled room. It is there somewhere, otherwise I’d have to admit. I was born to create art. I was born to torture my soul until it becomes tone-deaf to art.