A need, a craving for validation, to hear others say, ‘such imagination,’ or, ‘this piece plumbs the depths of my soul,’ is this enough, enough to produce great art? 

When art exposes the fascinating, the grotesque, the lovely, the true, is the driving force the will of the artist, or the will of the idea? 

Can art exist without desire, or is it like the love lovers hold between bodies, something fueled by hunger and the promise of gratification?  

This is a freewrite Prose is going to get for free, because what is the concept of this site if not just putting yourself out there and letting it out like galoshes on a dry day, like they're baking in the sun and cracking, the mold seeping in in the winter, where there is winter to be had, maybe the galoshes are in Caracas in Venezuela where the only winter can be a nuclear one that is unless the continental drift happens more rapidly than anticipated, wait why galoshes, what the hell do feet coverings, red, polyurethane, have to do with anything? Why not spaceships, chrome, polycarbonate? Why not cockroaches, brown, chitin? Why anything at all? When the world ends and there is nothing but scraps and fragments of our words left over, blowing in the zephyrs that blow no ships across the dead seas, will anyone care what signifiers signified anything?