From the beginning, the art was tied to labor and labor to its art. The chisel, the hammer, the pen; the odd job, the scraping, the barely- getting-by: it’s romantic, they say, in a spare, borrowed-room way, if you think starvation is romantic, which you don’t. You’ve watched the sun in its wide arc across they sky too long to find too much romantic, any more. You’ve run your heart down to its very core, whatever that means. Claptrap, you want to say. Fever dreams born from delirium — no, not even that, but something far more boring. Life, a raft between two shores that stretch beyond your ken. The sun beats down. And art is your own sin.