Inspiration is so weird. It's like a living thing that's born in you at the most random times. Once it's alive, and you feel it, two things can happen. You can let it out, or let it die.

The most relevant example of this concept is currently beating against my chest. It's like a small bird flapping against my ribcage, begging for release. That's why I'm writing this, right now. The persistent little thing decided that writing is it's escape route. Sometimes, more agressive creatures posses me, demanding more of me. I'm utterly powerless against my inspirations. It's probably my fatal flaw. But, if good things will come from my late night writings, sketches, early morning compositions or out-of-the-blue practice sessions, then so be it.

I am at the disposal of the Arts, and I wouldn't and couldn't want it any other way.