Every single time you commit that pen to paper, you are committing an atrocity greater than anything in human history. For every word you etch out on to the paper, a million galaxies die - their screams vanishing into the vaccum of space and eternity. Every sentence is a dagger, and with it you drain the world of all that is good. Not quickly, drop by drop.
I am The Artist. A dealer, if you will - for art is little more than a common drug slyly passed between young men at urinals. Call me a plague, for all fiction is viral. It spreads from man to man, growing in power and leaving each victim with less hope than the last.
No writer has ever dealt in truth.
Some may base their lies upon the truth - support their falsehoods with a solid foundation of stone, but they mold it and sculpt it until the truth is no longer a camera but a kaleidoscope. The truth is what you make it, and we have made it Hell.
When is the last time you truly saw the world for what it is? Art is truly a drug, a euthanizing, narcotic drug which dulls the senses and leaves you blind to the world around you. We immerse ourselves in fiction because it is an addicting substance. We volunteer to place the blindfold of art around our eyes because it feels so good.
I am The Artist, and that is all you will ever know me by. For how can I truly tell you who I am, when you are unable to answer the simplest question in the universe. A question that is so simple, and so important, that it has been hidden. Not, as you may suspect, hidden under lock and key in a secure vault at the bottom of the world. No, the most important question is not shrouded and masked - it is open, hidden in plain sight - as all important questions must be. How can I truly tell you who I am, when you cannot answer the most important question in the universe: Who are you?