How jealous would Michelangelo be, one of the greatest sculptures of all time, trying to create something as perfect your body. I bet Beethoven heard your voice in his mind while composing his greatest songs during the time he was deaf. Monnet painted the world in the color of your skin, and Van Gogh painted the whole sky in the colors of your veins. Franz Kafka would lose his mind trying to understand yours.
And all I can do is look up at the sky, search for Bukowski and say: “I made it. I found what i love, and I’m letting it kill me.