They have whispered that art is a mere fallacy, a nightmare that gallops before stumbling in the dark, it trips over the stagnant stems of ones inner thoughts, creating wonders of utter brilliance locked away in their chests, the traverse noise is lingering in every direction, how buildings deteriorate even before they are brought to life, the impossibility of finding my key is immense, and for that I wish you well, who are you to use telepathy to rob my precious treasure? Do not cut the curtain for your awful stare to be made known, the satisfaction of your voice creaks the wooden door off its hinges, beware of the ferocity you may recognize +End