It seems queer that an artist should move to squelch, rather than nurture, the waylay flashes of joy that, on occasion, shoot up from the stony soil of one's melancholy. "Surely, this sliver of silver cannot compliment my brooding landscape, not if I should be considered seriously." Always on the cusp of a freshly bled heart, youthful rendezvous with a flickering muse have suggested that inspiration and "true art" is only successfully tapped within the deepest reaches of the deepest self-scrutiny of the deepest pain. But this is as convincing as the divining dowser, oneself, and their witching rod with which one marks a spot to plunge. Hark! Yonder! A surface stream! Dam it, and damn the dark, and cup your hands in a pool in which there is no heartache, at least not today, for only the fool will scoff.