"Sellout," they hiss. “Man without principles, groveling for wealth.”

Mere words. I trade dreams for diamonds, creativity for coin. The taint of compromise stains my hands golden.

What worth is brilliance cloaked in darkness? Your masterpiece - perfect brushstrokes born from bleeding fingers, sculptures carved with tears and trembling hands - sits unseen in dusty corners. You pour molten soul into canvas, creating beauty that brings angels to their knees, yet mortal eyes pass blindly by. You refuse to bend, to shape your vision into digestible morsels for common minds. Pride and principles keep your spine straight as your body withers.

A century passes. Your bones crumble beneath forgotten soil, but finally, finally, they see. "Divine," they whisper, pressing reverent fingers to your work. "Surely gods themselves guided this hand." They spill blood in marble halls for a glimpse of your genius. Your art becomes their religion, each brush stroke a sacred text. But you feast only on worms, your ears long deaf to their praise.

My works? Lost to time's appetite. Yet my name echoes: "The merchant-artist, wealthiest of his age." They imagine masterpieces, assuming wealth sprouted from genius. The sellout sits in history's pages, while you - the pure, the principled - lie beside me in gilded texts. I lived soft and died warm. You bled your truth onto canvas and perished alone.

So tell me, martyr of art - was purity worth the price?