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the proclivity to depression, hyper-sensitive, hyper-neurotic, anxiety, unstable state of emotions, incompetence in conclusion, incompetence in fixation, the toxic cycle of contemplation, a victim of psychological pathology, a victim of mental severity. These people are sacrificing themselves to draw new truth in the world through terrific poems, books, theories, paintings, music, and dances—but the dumb bastards think these are just child-like entities with no actual existential role. Plus with the fast-growing brain-dead trend of computation makes the artists even more dying, starving for the credit they deserve. These artists hate those people, they really hate them with all their hearts. They hate their suits, their accent, the way they think they're right, the unearned virtue.
But as usual, they could utter none but brutal silence. A palette and a brush, a being of chaos left alone in the corner. They cut their ears, microwaved their heads, jumped off the bridge, shot themselves, rotted, and stroked. I think this needs to change, I don't think we can afford another Gogh or another ubermensch killed by a horse. There should be platforms for creativity, not for autonomy. There should be platforms for chaos, not robots for ease. I just don't want to die before I stress about this thing worldwide, along with others who tried to scream this but were saturated by the goddamn mass.
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