Every artist finds a wall. Most circle it, decorate it, call it home. But creation doesn’t live in comfort. It’s born in the fracture—when you push too far, bleed a little, and break on through.

There’s a borderland tucked between waking and sleep. Images flicker in without permission, voices whisper things you didn’t ask to hear, and then—gone. But if you linger—hover just long enough—the curtain wavers. The muse, or maybe the parasite, steps forward. This is where the good stuff sneaks in. A line. A melody. A shard of truth sharp enough to cut.

Ideas are not polite guests. They are invaders, builders, destroyers.