Creation

To pastiche a work of an artist is to endeavour to listen to the Muses' old whispers, to presence a distant state of mind, and waken from an eternal slumber a part of a soul; all through the piece that is the portal between then and now.
    
    You don't know why that piece or why it is driving you mad. You emulate, but fail to master; yet, you can't put down your instrument.
You never stop till you can see; till you feel the epiphany that once hit them, and be able to stroll down their cities' roads in your head; till you smell their favourite scents, and taste on your tongue their forgotten coffee that went cold; till you hear the song that resided in the back of their heads and kept them awake for weeks; till you have the same dreams, and live through their nightmares.
You don't stop until you cease trying to find why: all this time you were being driven by an imperious call, an unquenched fire sustaining the passion. The urge was of an unknown source. (Always is)

     And till their imagination and yours coalesce into a new form, and the chaos inside you subsides; till you devise your own pattern, and feel touched by your own piece -- only then you see the connection; only then you detach from them; only then you can stop and look for another work, another part of yourself.