We exist through thinking talking analyzing deconstructing destruction and even though it's not the best idea, forgetting that which reveals what we feel. whether or not we can decide for ourselves that art is indeed
meaningful or whimsical
burning all tied up in ink canvas pigment celluloid paper color sound plastic over strings brass and the conductors wand.
on the final day the trumpets shall sound not a fanfare but a dirge at the loss of these stubborn lights. all the interesting composers were sent to hell in a handbasket and all heaven has is elgar. anyways who wouldn't want to burn next to picasso, prokofiev, moliere.
in this day and age of radio internet tv cars fast forward symphonies galleries turned postcard shops acceptance is unacceptable to those lucky born again bastards because redemption isn't for the queers and calling in sick isn't working.
postmodernism has become a dirty word but what else are we unless we build time machines out of our was