Do you know that feeling when you see or hear a beautiful creation? The very depths of you touched by someone’s vision or desire or passion or hate or madness, or love? It feels so pure, so true, so powerful.

Yet it sometimes also feels so belittling. The power of the art towers above you, speaking for no one but itself, yet speaking to so many. And you look up, dwarfed by its existence, crushed by your own. Enamoured by its reason, disenchanted by your own. Swept away by its truth, swept aside by your lie.

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