Alleviating the hustle of systematic survival by means of monetary wealth is the artist’s greatest illusion of success. Your music, your poems, your paintings have the mark of the beast. Of the privilege. The assumption that living is somehow without art. Ever. The great deception. There is an art to being human and this masterpiece has no stage, no book, no album—it lives within and through us. There is no selling what can’t be sold. And which of you has nothing to sell? What of you is not for sale? Were you not always for sale? It was always to be about the process of art not the product of art. I imagine the unselling of life. The corruption of a Basquiat for the sake of a Warhol. The consistent commodification of soul. Your fetish with Africa will not save you a soul sold. Sold for the wants and needs of a kind of power whose shackles are mind. The color of slavery does not change the slave.
There is a killing before the kill.