My grandma used to say - existence, on a blue planet with white swirls spinning across an endless cold emptiness, is a void, which you must fill. Most fill it with the clatter of everyday noise, to deny the void, to forget its existence within all of us, and the irrefragable return to it we all must, one day.

Musicians fill the void with notes.

Artists - with swirls of color, bold strokes.

Writers - with words.

And attempt to transfigure the emptiness into something else; and that is the true measure of Art.

She believed Musicians are foremost in their success - they fill the void with notes, serenading the void into forgetfulness and substance; banishing the gloom. Like strange flashes of light of micro-organisms on the heaving brine, you see, when you are far out at sea, at night, in the holy darkness - they glow.

Artists are second - with intimations of imagination,splashes of color and substance, paint over the void. Like a thirsty man in the desert - who gazes upon the mirage of an oasis, and finds comfort and salvation.

But writers are different. They attempt to word the void, and in doing so, lends it substance. Embracing the void, themselves become one with it; banishes it.