The most frustrating part of it all being the moment when, after having wrestled for hours with the question of whether or not my actions are right or wrong, I come to the realization that not only is there no answer but that nobody cares.

Every once in a while we get dragged out of this mire on a fishhook of incontrovertible beauty—to spin always in that instant! Not without gravity, but hooked by a new limb.

How can you not want art? How can you not make it? How not turn yourself inside out around the points where something makes a kind of sense?

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