I can't feel my friends or my closest people.  If they don't pay sufficient lip service I tear them apart.  I find myself tearing maternal and paternal figures apart who are more resilient.  Because I pay them.  I tell them they aren't responsive, they aren't walking their talk, or whatever.  I tear the few apart that I choose to take care of me.  They are a scant few.  Friends don't need that burden.  Only if they bear down and assume an intimacy untoward, like some introverts do.  Expecting you to open like a clam shell.  If you don't soften your belly for me, if you prove inadequate and cold I will tear you apart if you're standing continuously in one place.  It is windy outside and I can't sleep without a sense of emotional security.  That I'm okay.  We're okay.  It isn't brokered, words that color the perspective, the way we see the world is intoxicating and all permeating, and a way to redirect that perspective, even to recharge by feeling like milk fed sleepy puppy.  Which I need to venture out, like the attachment theory three year old, every four hours.  Then propelled by nostalgia for the freewheeling countercultural times, that come with leaky roofs, open bathroom doors, artistic penury, squats and communal childhood.  I venture out briefly at night into the possibility of a driving artistic passion, to hang out with artists who are hipsters who spend the days crafting their style on mood boards.  Rather than my friends and their emotional honesty, their cynicism, their openness, introversion lack of satisfaction... we are who we hang out with.  The artistic life in its monastic purpose is the tonic for my daily lack of propulsion, the artistic life is propelled by the outward interest of creation, the mission, the seeking, which must be recharged on a daily basis, and the inward editing, adjusting, the philosophy of editing which must be to refine the message of the piece or something.  Or to redirect it, of integrity.  To live with integrity is a risk, whatever this integrity is.  I know that the exchange of money means that our artistry is commodified.  My writing is shaped by what he wants for his website and what he wants is listicles about the 90s or pizza cakes or shoes because what the audience wants is a reflection of themselves and human lives and what they already knew... our writing is about you discovering yourself.  Or you remembering something funny.  Much like humor is sensitive to the room, web pieces depend obviously on the generosity of readers.  Katherine Anne Porter's careful and biting, pitiless examination of humanity and its ugliness had a less obvious connection to the generosity of the passing reader's attention span and more of a link to the publisher or editor.  The editor's one judgment, rather than the statistician's, determined what the people want to entertain themselves with.  Our integrity and artistic freedom, if we were to freelance, is less free than if our role was specifically defined as the guy who optimizes page views with logistic regressions, the guy who is given the option of being an influencer.  The owner can set the price, bargain with our desperation to create and live with the integrity of creation, though living interrupts creation, the preoccupation with living and balance interrupts output and the form and beauty of the output.  Output is a noble sacrifice to a beautiful and healthy life.  Noble in the sense that it is the perfect chip to gamble away the possibility of failure or the potential of love.  Wilder than the monastic existence, the creative's is the bare wire that must ping with all emotion and carefully and analytically absorb all human evidence in the world around it, analytically produce insight on humans and what it means to be this one type.  On this beautiful blue ball, focusing on humans and their little fears.  Why focus on them?  The selfish thought comes back, because I am important, and I want to embody what's important, and all I see is humans.  So I will talk about humans.  It is self righteous to talk about topics without a personal touch, or to exalt animals or current events above people, even if current events swallow us up and make it less important to be a people.  People who created things and did it well had a reason I can't assume.  Artists since 1910 are invested in making their words and intentions impenetrable.  Intentions ruin the immediacy of the art.