[ The feeling of dying, it must be: Pain knows that feeling, well. He is -- lest one forgets -- dying always, and living through death: through six corpses, and one rotting body, so when he sees (smells, feels, hears) the lightheatpressure and darkness of death, it is like a touch of home amid the pristine garden that is nothing remotely like what home ever was. ]
[Is intrigued, because he likes discussing socio-politically themed matters.]
I suppose I have little taste for art, given that my experience with "art" is that what is deemed so is dictated by the larger countries, and those who hold power, as a way of devaluing the endeavors of those who do not.
[He doesn't even need to pause to think about that.] Art's the explosion, un. But it's more than just a bit of pretty lights and sounds--fireworks aren't anything like explosives. Everything at once--everything all lit up and existing. But nothing lasts forever, right, so you have to pack everything--everything--into that one instant, that one perfect everything. Then nothing, un. It'll never happen again. That's art.
I remember.
[As if to himself: the words.]
Yes, it was just like that.
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I suppose I have little taste for art, given that my experience with "art" is that what is deemed so is dictated by the larger countries, and those who hold power, as a way of devaluing the endeavors of those who do not.
What would you call "art"?
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I have never considered that art before, though.
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