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Writers…born not in the Halls of Education…but in the fires of necessity. Masters not of prose, form, language, or a perceived command of the Art. The scream, the release, the venting, the exquisite song, becomes, the Art, the Dance, the Symphony. A drive, to unburden, release, free…the screams that torment, them, you, and me. Write to live, live to write,…
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Vladislas Nikilovic
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Writers…born not in the Halls of Education…but in the fires of necessity. Masters not of prose, form, language, or a perceived command of the Art. The scream, the release, the venting, the exquisite song, becomes, the Art, the Dance, the Symphony. A drive, to unburden, release, free…the screams that torment, them, you, and me. Write to live, live to write,…
—
Vladislas Nikilovic
Landscape of fire, Screams, Blood, Madness, I stand, Smiling. The Armies of Hell itself, As far as the eye can see, Stand undulating, A living vista, Glaring at me. Hell's general steps forth, And with a giggle, Practiced motion, I lope off his head, As a way of fear, Passes over the Damned, The dead. Their leader fallen, They hesitate…
—
Vladislas Nikilovic
