Wussies. Churning it out, flawless and regular in the name of perfection, as on a conveyor belt. Trying to breathe a life into a dead form, puffing and spitting out arguments like „repetition is the mother of learning” as if you were about to draw your last breath. How many of you dare to receive the muse’s burning kiss? How much of the burning beauty will your throat be able to breathe in? Does it hurt to watch your own ego collapse just like the simple shape you were so content with? It shouldn’t, if you were heroes.