I reiterate: No. I do not publish either faerie tales or fine art. Nothing, in fact.

Why should I? Not a soul out there has a clue who I am or why I do anything. Nobody cares. They're all, in the end, just like us. 

Everyone I know is rushing toward a sea of oblivion, each of them certain life is their private slice of hell. Lemmings. Small rodentia en masse, on a misguided mission to beat every other identical creature plus those deemed different, to a salty end.

I have news for you, lemmings. You're not only a mere speck on the planet, you're not even that big in the multiverse. Nothing you do will be significant—in less than the blink of an imaginary god's eye. In the concepts of perfection or forever, it won't amount to diddly squat.

Go ahead. Keep asking. I'm not writing for you. Your sweety-pie sensibilities don't apply. I don't publish, don't sell, don't follow your many fanatical obsessions. Not politics, sports, religion, nationalism, not any of it. 

While you're divvying up teams so as to leave out the poorest, weakest, oldest, most "disabled", you forgot one crucial element: reality. It has teeth. It has as much darkness as light. It's impartial. It is the gods you made. Give it a sweet little kiss and hug.

💋