Don’t I owe it to myself ? What wager have I made and with whom? Clarity in its most obscure form: obfuscated by smoke, drowned out by noise. Darkness as the purest form of white. Given the chance… I’d probably let it slip away. So give somebody else the chance; some delusional soul who still believes that all of this matters, that the mortality of matter is a matter of no importance, that longevity can be bought, that a name, somewhere, eroded, on a stone, is the same as eternal life. Give it to the poor and huddled masses, give it to anyone else. A privilege so lost on me. A status undeserved. The injustice drains me, dries me up.
Fidel Castro is dead!, he shouted out on Twitter and the mere observation of a fact has somehow became something worth saying. If only other obvious things were said by other people. If only the body and the mind were two different things. One perishable, the other eternal. Though history shall absolve the body, for the mind has come up with some horrible things.

Somewhere someone thought art had to be democratized. That a curator should prefer local artists, regardless of their talent.

The people agreed.

Contemporary art is dead indeed.

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