It’s kind of conflicting. There’s this urge to live, a fear of death that comes from all the beauty and art in the world, and the ultimate, absolute horror of never being able to experience it all. Your whole life, you’re trying to absorb all of these wonderful thoughts and ideas, and it’s never enough, because everything comes from something, you’ll never get to the root of it all; or else you’ll never be able to count all of the leaves sprouting off in the other direction. But then all of this art, it’s all in the past, why weren’t you here to witness it’s creation? You’re stuck looking at it all through a computer monitor. You can go to Paris and see the Mona Lisa, but there’s no point because it’s done, it’s finished, there’s nothing left to do. So we’re left to create for ourselves, but it’s useless, there’s nothing left to create, everything worth saying has been said. You think you have an idea and someone tells you how you’re part of some -ism and you realize it isn’t worth fighting for any more. People tell you that you don’t need art, you need love, and you need meaning, but art and love and meaning all seem like the same thing when you can’t experience any of them. So what do you do? You sit, you read, you watch, you listen, and your brain changes shape and your back starts to break and all the while they’re making room for your casket and it’s all getting too much… and then some sweet girl with a pretty dress goes and makes it a hundred times worse just by being there.