"Invincible," he intoned. His own fist curled against the wall, smacking it, his body tense in its angles. "And always on the outskirts of society. Even pretending to integrate correctly is a wayward delusion, even trying for the sake of attempt."

It wasn't a huge sacrifice, he told himself. It was better this way, more honest. And wasn't he ever an honest man? It was better this way

"What do you think is more valuable, to the artist? The form or the message?" One had to be compromised, eventually, he reasoned. Within society. But outside of that, just beyond, there was the original liberty. That's what he had tried so hard to repress, wasn't it?