Art is a fickle thing.
Constantly evolving, an effervescent accruement of flesh and bone casually tossed among veins pulsating with every single twitch, we are nothing more than the original instillation art piece.
Our venue: the chair I now sit in, the bed on which we made love, the now-dying grass flattened between your wandering toes, the grotesquely unappealing aisles of the corner market marred by sole marks.
It is (we are?) everywhere. It is (we are?) nowhere.
The ultimate ashes-to-ashes; Alice sees the project and begins amalgamating herself to be the person SHE wants to be known as after death. Alice gives up everything she is for her contribution, if you will, to the work. But, by altering even one aspect of the predicated norm, she throws the whole piece off. Alice, instead of her normal quad-shot skim latte from the new swank coffee shop across town decides to make her own coffee this morning. Tom, her barista, doesn't get to finally spill his profound disgust to Alice-after having seen her weathered lips all over another man's dick at a film last weekend. And so on...
It is far too cliche to say our actions are interconnected, as is the contrite golden-rule.
I say, fuck 'em all. It's not supposed to be perfect.
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