The urge to create beautiful things before you die is like an old man standing in front of you with an hourglass, intermittently cackling at you while he sporadically prods you between the ribs with his cane, yelling "TIME'S A RUNNIN OUT SONNY!!!! whatcha gonna do huh?! WAHTCHA GONNA DOOOO???!!! AHAHAHAHAH!" and while you desperately want to crack that cane over his tiny, shiny, egg-like mind, you've actually come to like the old bastard. So you let him stay, and bit by bit, become as mad as he is.