There are moments throughout life that question your being of art and continuing this way. What the fuck am I doing continuing to write for TMT and Chocolate Grinder? All I get these days are e-mails I only reply to with links to articles, and text from Hydroyoga about how we can’t hang. What that fuck am I still writing for TMT for? Who the fuck reads this shit? When do you get to a point where you quit or transcend into something more butterfly? Like, when did White Gourd have that moment of clarity where Magician Le Diable struck her as the next step in artistry? Was it something Psychic Sounds Recordings commissioned her to do? Did she bring it to them?
It’s the dark nights that consciousness is barely bare. Desire of the held to beheld to be dealt the health of melt. Oh, to be in court with the devil; to watch Magician Le Diable produce le White Gourd. A rot:
More about: White Gourd
