Scales

The annoyance of being an artist is you always focus on art.
Artists make art for artists.
Singers sing songs for musicians.
Only skeptics buy into hypothetical situations.
Only the decided can argue against the divided.

When you're in charge of writing other people's dreams, sometimes you wonder if they appreciate the faint hints of excellence you include. Like a slight background symphony hidden by a large man with a jackhammer. Why do yours always come out as nightmares? Talent? I doubt it. You lust for the life of another, and yet another lusts for the dreams of the dark.

Typical wanting what you don't have story I suppose, except maybe you don't learn in the end that you always had what you wanted. Maybe you were wrong with both choices and you're actually an accountant not an artist.

Who could you be if you wrote other people's dreams?