I finished this in the dead of night and was affected by it but I didn't think profoundly until I've kept returning to it several days after finishing. There are some white supremacist implications to this image of the artist as this solitary, individual figure, but I also found a pull of recognition. Maybe in the floweriness, maybe in the obvious contemplation of the world around you, this push and pull of connection, this feeling that you would die if you could not create. It's both a little comical and familiar to be writing as if you're silvery and passing your wisdom down at 28 years old. This is not to say that the artist is inherently tortured, just to say that looking is exhausting, observing can wring you out. I appreciated the meditations on solitude and nature and patience and dedication. There is such love to thinking and thinking deeply and sharing it with those around you.