Madness is never fully appreciated. One can go mad in jest of anothers experience, but never fully relish it. Unless they truly went mad themselves. It's a simpletons quest, to boast in jest, that which cannot be understood, and hardly respected. Sanity may lay in the mind; unfailingly, most will still jest. Sanity, is always misunderstood, vastly so, is the mind of an artist; which most will say, is even madder.
No one really knows what happens in the mind, least of all the artists themselves, within the reason of madness. Or at the clutches of a harassing thought, or harmful voice. Inspiration may strike at anywhere, most unrelenting, during fear; or as else may say, during bliss.
To slow is one to discard the mind, least of all those that do not fully understand it. To know ones mind, some may say, is to greatly underestimate it. "If it works, why throw it away?" is the rational man's cry. But to others it is just a cog in the wheel. To still, others, it's a musical jest, or the seat of the soul entire, in others far less insane than most would think.