The painter has her canvas and her brushes to reveal, to all the world the glory that creation makes her feel. The poet has a notebook and his pencils to record the wonder that he finds within, the beauty seen abroad. Composers have their octaves and notation to explore the tonal echoes of the world that they in living saw. But I have just my mind and time, one moment to create, myself a little happiness before it is too late. In living or in dying I remain forever free, to be endlessly creating the person I will be. For the creative part of living makes me truly whole and I can know no greater art, than is the human soul.