Excerpt from daily scribbling: 

It’s winter break and all the students slouch back to their separate rainy rooms. Damn exhausting, keeping all this energy restrained, meted out in studious amounts, spent on projects we are told are important. Our world of black ink and white paper is suddenly free to explode into any color we fucking choose.

We hibernate, curled in blankets, dreaming art, consuming art through open mouths like suckling infants or iPhones recharging, recuperating, finding our muses again. Parents shake their heads: “Why don’t you do something?” they ask, and we can’t explain it, but we know we are. We need this.

And then, when we are ready, smoggy-eyed and bad-breathed from coffee and alcohol–our medicine and chlorophyll–we burst upright in our beds. Oh, we are so swollen and pregnant with possible art. It swells up, coiling and uncoiling like alien DNA, and we give birth to new things, real things, important things that no one else understands.