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For Ernest, work was not a mere duty; it was a joy, a fierce delight, much akin to what the pursuit of pleasure brings to the masses. The dynamics of his intellect provided him with an intimate satisfaction comparable to the physical closeness one finds in a lover's arms. His eyes glinted with vivacity, his muscles tensed with anticipation, as he was enveloped by the euphoria of creation.

Yet, there were times when mundane necessities, like burdensome stones, hindered the soaring of his imagination. The demands of editors and the need to earn a living imposed a stark reality—he could not afford to keep them waiting, for they were the source of his livelihood.

Nevertheless, amidst these day-to-day obligations, his play was taking shape, each scene meticulously crafted in the quiet of the night. His narrative was woven with threads of fervent longing and exotic allure, punctuated by moments of unsettling affection. The essence of his life merged subtly with the narrative he spun. After all, true art is a reflection of the artist, not necessarily of their lived reality, but rather of the many selves within them—potentialities that are at once enticing, sometimes terrifying, and always utterly captivating. These selves soar to celestial heights within reach and plunge into abysmal depths just below the surface.

The consummate artist is he who can grasp the extremities of both heaven and hell. There are countless versions of each, and from every one, the artist steals a spark of inspiration. The intensity with which a murderer covets his act is mirrored in the poet who, with fervent words, paints a vivid picture of the deed. To the poet, his creations are as tangible as the life he breathes. In the domain of his craft, the poet reigns sovereign. No matter if his hands are sullied with sin or disease, he retains his regal stature. Yet, should he dare to manifest the secrets of his imagination into the material world, the very crowd that once revered him may turn against him with brutal retribution.

There were stretches of time when Ernest's mind seemed unable to focus on the task at hand, the play that demanded his attention. Then, like a surge of adrenaline, inspiration would grip him anew, and he would mentally string together exquisite phrases and images, refraining from committing them to paper until they were fully refined. To even speak of his creation before it was wholly realized felt to him an act of indiscretion, as if he were revealing something deeply personal and sacred before its time.

Reginald appeared to be swept up in his own projects, leaving little opportunity for Ernest to engage with him. Any attempt to discuss creative endeavors during casual moments, like breakfast, felt like a violation of the sacredness of their work.

As the days turned over, one after another, April's youthful charm gave way to May's maturity. Ernest's play was nearly complete in his mind, and he dreaded the laborious process of committing it to paper. His ideas felt intangible, slipping through his grasp when he tried to pin them down.

On a particularly bright day, Ernest resolved to take a walk along the serene expanse of the Palisades, seeking the calm necessary to steady himself for the demanding task ahead.

He mentioned his plan to Reginald, but received only a tepid acknowledgment in return. Reginald's complexion was pale, the mark of late nights immersed in intense labor.

"You seem incredibly busy," Ernest commented, his voice laced with genuine concern.

"I am," Reginald admitted. "I have a way of working in intense bursts. I become agitated, almost feverish, until I've expressed all that is crying out to be born."

"And what is consuming you so? The epic on the French Revolution?" Ernest inquired, recalling Reginald's previous project.

Reginald shook his head. "No, I haven't touched that in weeks. Ever since Walkham visited, my mind has been elsewhere. It was as if he inadvertently unraveled my thoughts. The raw material of poetry is like glowing glass before it's shaped—it's sensitive to the slightest disturbance. But I'm working on something far more significant now. I'm forging a work not of fragile glass, but of solid, molten gold."

Ernest's curiosity was piqued, and he couldn't help admiring Reginald's confident craftsmanship. "You're making me very eager to see this new creation. It seems you're at a peak where you can't even outdo yourself."

Reginald accepted the compliment with a smile. "I like to think that this work embodies the maturity of my skills with the vitality of a new beginning."

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Ernest's enthusiasm was palpable, his spirit resonating with Reginald's creative energy. "When will we have the honor of witnessing it?"

Reginald glanced back towards his desk, where his unfinished work beckoned. "With a bit of luck, I'll finish it tonight. I have my reception tomorrow, and I'm considering debuting it there."

"I, too, may soon be ready to share my play with you."

"That would be splendid," Reginald responded, his attention already drifting back to his own work. The insatiable drive of the artist had reclaimed him, binding him once again to the relentless pursuit of his craft.

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For Ernest, work was not a mere duty; it was a joy, a fierce delight, much akin to what the pursuit of pleasure brings to the masses. The dynamics of his intellect provided him with an intimate satisfaction comparable to the physical closeness one finds in a lover's arms. His eyes glinted with vivacity, his muscles tensed with anticipation, as he was enveloped by the euphoria of creation.

Yet, there were times when mundane necessities, like burdensome stones, hindered the soaring of his imagination. The demands of editors and the need to earn a living imposed a stark reality—he could not afford to keep them waiting, for they were the source of his livelihood.

Nevertheless, amidst these day-to-day obligations, his play was taking shape, each scene meticulously crafted in the quiet of the night. His narrative was woven with threads of fervent longing and exotic allure, punctuated by moments of unsettling affection. The essence of his life merged subtly with the narrative he spun. After all, true art is a reflection of the artist, not necessarily of their lived reality, but rather of the many selves within them—potentialities that are at once enticing, sometimes terrifying, and always utterly captivating. These selves soar to celestial heights within reach and plunge into abysmal depths just below the surface.

The consummate artist is he who can grasp the extremities of both heaven and hell. There are countless versions of each, and from every one, the artist steals a spark of inspiration. The intensity with which a murderer covets his act is mirrored in the poet who, with fervent words, paints a vivid picture of the deed. To the poet, his creations are as tangible as the life he breathes. In the domain of his craft, the poet reigns sovereign. No matter if his hands are sullied with sin or disease, he retains his regal stature. Yet, should he dare to manifest the secrets of his imagination into the material world, the very crowd that once revered him may turn against him with brutal retribution.

There were stretches of time when Ernest's mind seemed unable to focus on the task at hand, the play that demanded his attention. Then, like a surge of adrenaline, inspiration would grip him anew, and he would mentally string together exquisite phrases and images, refraining from committing them to paper until they were fully refined. To even speak of his creation before it was wholly realized felt to him an act of indiscretion, as if he were revealing something deeply personal and sacred before its time.

Reginald appeared to be swept up in his own projects, leaving little opportunity for Ernest to engage with him. Any attempt to discuss creative endeavors during casual moments, like breakfast, felt like a violation of the sacredness of their work.

As the days turned over, one after another, April's youthful charm gave way to May's maturity. Ernest's play was nearly complete in his mind, and he dreaded the laborious process of committing it to paper. His ideas felt intangible, slipping through his grasp when he tried to pin them down.

On a particularly bright day, Ernest resolved to take a walk along the serene expanse of the Palisades, seeking the calm necessary to steady himself for the demanding task ahead.

He mentioned his plan to Reginald, but received only a tepid acknowledgment in return. Reginald's complexion was pale, the mark of late nights immersed in intense labor.

"You seem incredibly busy," Ernest commented, his voice laced with genuine concern.

"I am," Reginald admitted. "I have a way of working in intense bursts. I become agitated, almost feverish, until I've expressed all that is crying out to be born."

"And what is consuming you so? The epic on the French Revolution?" Ernest inquired, recalling Reginald's previous project.

Reginald shook his head. "No, I haven't touched that in weeks. Ever since Walkham visited, my mind has been elsewhere. It was as if he inadvertently unraveled my thoughts. The raw material of poetry is like glowing glass before it's shaped—it's sensitive to the slightest disturbance. But I'm working on something far more significant now. I'm forging a work not of fragile glass, but of solid, molten gold."

Ernest's curiosity was piqued, and he couldn't help admiring Reginald's confident craftsmanship. "You're making me very eager to see this new creation. It seems you're at a peak where you can't even outdo yourself."

Reginald accepted the compliment with a smile. "I like to think that this work embodies the maturity of my skills with the vitality of a new beginning."

Ernest's enthusiasm was palpable, his spirit resonating with Reginald's creative energy. "When will we have the honor of witnessing it?"

Reginald glanced back towards his desk, where his unfinished work beckoned. "With a bit of luck, I'll finish it tonight. I have my reception tomorrow, and I'm considering debuting it there."

"I, too, may soon be ready to share my play with you."

"That would be splendid," Reginald responded, his attention already drifting back to his own work. The insatiable drive of the artist had reclaimed him, binding him once again to the relentless pursuit of his craft.