You are all here tonight because you appreciate art. You know viewing art makes us better. It gives form to the things that dwell in our minds, laundries and gentle goats. But the act of creation is not always as transcendent for the creator. Just ask the great master painters, who dabbed brushes tainted with lead pigments on their tongues...and were driven into tormented, painful insanity. Not that anyone noticed, of course. For, you see, to create is to be frustrated...possessed of an eternally pregnant womb that will bear no perfect spawn...only stunted, gibbering mutants. Perhaps it's because ideas sit too long, turning to vinegar instead of wine. Perhaps the cask must be carved open...so the smiling, happy grape babies can spill across the tiles in a hot purple tsunami.
They brought my Dollotrons back, but I had to look under the hood. I found a message inside them, with no expiration date. For you...I pushed it to the front of my gourd so you could see it. You're flailing in the dark. You're weak. And you'll stay that way. Because of what you won't admit. Even to yourself, shoat. The Shadow doesn't know.