Al Quotion. The Part Of Improvisation (№ 153748)

People will never paint the picture that far surpasses the banal pattern of frost on the glass or the ripples in a simple puddle when it rains. People will never compose music that will be better than the birds singing outside the window or the moan of wind in the desert. People never write poems more Frank and anxious than soft light in the eyes of the lover boy or the trembling fingers of the dying man. But we still create... May be because love, dressed in the attire of rage or acute sadness, but always it is love, filled with heart, freezing the black tar in the deep eyes inevitably seek out, splash to the outside, tearing his chest, settling on the tips of the brush, falling in scattered notes. Collecting us all the best with pain and blood taking inspiration from the origins of the naked soul, madly laughing or resting eyes dilated pupils visible only to her deep. And because the poets look sick, red from lack of sleep eyes to the sky, picking up the elusive word, and because the rabid musicians continue to touch the strings already stiff from the cold fingers, seeing nothing, and so the artists go crazy, dropping to her knees near neobychnogo of the canvas and crying... But it is in moments like these strange, living deep inside people are so vulnerable in the space of a solid peace, stitching under the skin of their weaknesses, along with breathing the keen air of the poisonous pollen of creativity... It is in these moments they see God.