Do you know the problem with art? It’s shy. It is insecure, vulnerable, and hyper-sensitive. I have spent most of the last couple of days working on a poem. After dozens of crappy pages, and hundreds of lines, I couldn’t gather enough for a few verses. It seems that the writer, the poet, the artist in me just couldn’t work on timelines. It never could. For him, it’s about the timelessness of the work. Sometimes, a few minutes are enough and sometimes months are short.