But is it Art?

Whoever it is that you are or purport to be, whatever darkness and corrosion you claim surrounds your heart, you cannot deny the universal truth that, in the most secret corner moments of night, when all the threats of the world are still and sleeping, when you shed the armored mask of self that you trick yourself into believing is you, when all of your self-deceptions and ego fade into the dark like whispers of forgotten names lost to the ashes of manuscripts thrown into the fire in disgust, when you are capable of being truly, unabashedly honest with yourself, if, then, you gaze within, you will admit to yourself that deep down, you miss Richard Marx.