So what happened? How did I become a slave to the machine? As I gaze at the dust settled on my copper, fabrics and tools, I wonder how my life became so unbalanced. What's worse is, how can those I serve justify making such demands on my time and personal resources? The images that have emerged from the depths of my imagination merely rest upon the cerebral shelf also collecting the dust of resentment. So tired and unfulfilled I don't know who I am these days. The death of an artist? Or is most of our society dying in this manner?