Obvious trendy indie cynicism aside, there is some truth here: our best work is never for sale; it is for ourselves... And if we sold our truly precious best work, would it even be possible to consent to sell a chunk of your soul? Why does Sisyphus keep pushing that stone up the hill? Is he happy doing the ritual and getting buff? If he finally got the thing over the top, would he sabotage himself just so he could revel in pushing it eternally? This impossible dream gives hope... purpose. Get up in the morning, shower, shave, and eat breakfast. If I sold my work, what would my purpose be then? All this conceded to you, still, I WANT THAT MONEY!