"... they don't listen properly to cries of pain when they come. They can't, of course. They're a peerage of tin ears. With such faulty equipment, with those ears, how can anyone possibly trace the pain, by sound and quality alone, back to its source?"
From Seymour: An Introduction by J.D. Salinger
I only hope to express or create impressions of what resounds inwardly, to become a true seer, to let out a howl of pain that would float on in the universe for at least a moment.
In the meantime, though, I can only create a bunch of shit.
"But where does by far the bulk, the whole ambulance load, of pain really come from? Where must it come from? Isn't the true poet or painter a seer? Isn't he, actually, the only seer we have on earth?"