The muse. ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
The muse? It's the matchstick to your dynamite. Not some fluffy cloud whispering sweet nothings. It's a dare—a smack in the face that says, "Step up or step aside." Forget mediocrity; the muse demands chaos, guts, and glory. It doesn’t ask nicely—it shoves you toward greatness.

Creation’s not cozy. It’s messy, raw, and loud. The muse doesn’t coddle—it yanks you by the collar, drags you to the edge, and says, “Jump.” Fear? Desire? Yeah, you’ll meet them both. But the muse doesn’t care—it’s here to wake you up, not tuck you in.

The muse is a spark plug, not a security blanket. It’s not here to make you comfortable; it’s here to make you alive. True art doesn’t come from calm waters—it’s born in the storm. Creation is struggle, not ease. The muse? It’s the voice that whispers, “Prove it.”