The Call of the Octo-Hoff

It seems now that I have once again begun with great optimism to gather ballerinas at my creative maw without that due heed paid to those lessons of days I've already past. The Octo-Hoff lurks, and I must embrace him. I must know my own bounds, and I must find my hands a way to work within them. This is the only true forward facing course of prudence.

What shadows leech anew into our surrounds as we falter unbidden into our own selfish false fantasies? What given thief have we allowed to prey upon us in these wretched hollows we dig as our dreams? Without the strength of will to see through the arduous birth, they feed in lieu of nourish. Worse, these parasites are hewn of our own hands. Wicked are we.

We imagine ourselves too capable in the face of these sudden creative outpourings. Surely we can create with speed ever increasing, should the need arise. Were we but challenged, surely we would meet such challenge with both aptitude and grace.

Are our talents not liquid? Capable without the merest of hesitations of becoming unto any form with which they are presented? Is that not the nature of the art? Do we not engage The Great Tradition for this very purpose? Do we slosh wildly against the sides of the trough, or find new accomplishment in the artistry of adherence to its herring curves?

What obnoxiously flavoured panacea have we attempted to have wrought in order to bestow upon our own selves the sole governance of the name of that herring? Are the fish our's to name?

Woe is the one who turns their back to face upon the Octo-Hoff, for he is betentacled!