The artist everyone keeps talking about

Self-Doubt bordered by delusions of grandeur. Incessant urges to paint then photograph, write then film. Rejection of societal expectations; footwear, hygiene, money. Fuck money. I'll sleep in my car. Masochistic? Broken bones remind me of life. Illusions rise and recede with each breath. The deep ones I hold an extra moment. On exhale faux bois vases holding evergreen limbs melt quickly. Remember the stars and the astronauts and the narrow space between? It was a hop while you crawled, a leap when you stood, and the faster you run the smaller they become. You're heading the wrong way on a spherical world. Stop one second and don't think. That's your problem.