jars12

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 beautifully terrifyingly 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, proko