Art is this unruly animal created by artists. It only is. It has no purpose. But to live without it reminds humanity that humanity itself is an ugly emptiness, condemned by its very cruel structures to live in perpetual grayness, a moral poverty, and humanity is stupid. It only is. It has no purpose but too oppress itself. To cut its guts open. To set itself on fire. To disembowel itself. To sew its lips shut with wire in order to articulate nothing but the groaning and the spit of irrelevance. Art reflects this, pushes it away, and yet embraces it for the vortex that humanity’s emptiness is able to twirl down like a the black holes of gravity.

Art is made by fools. It is consumed by animals who think they are not animals. Art is disingenuous. It lies. It is the truth. It has entered a state of constant emergency, whereby pursuits both personal and political must be pitted against one another to determine which are essential. To it. To us. To the truth. To the lies. To sex.

To the marble hardened by the earth that represents our limited comprehension of what is real, and by our passionate enthusiasm for a grandeur that never was. We are a breathing species on a planet of oxygen, that is all we are, we are not even capable of answering the question, why are you here, which is juxtaposed by oxygen that burns and explodes as easily as eyelids blink in light.

Art is evil. Evil only is. All artists are evil. Even the ones who are able to live alone, work alone, are driven to be alone, to work, they never play, and the applause of the masses never reaches or affects their ears because all artists are deaf, and have no awareness of their echoes or their holes, they are their holes. These are the shit holes of ambiguity. The lifeless glimpse of I see you.