It's weird. You go on living. The world around you moves. It's like every day. Every breath. Maybe that's what it is, what you breath. There is this feeling. It's almost like a flutter. Like the wold just tells you- "stop. Look at what I made for  y o u  I did this. Now do what you will with what I made". And you do. You take this, this feeling the world around you gave, and make art. The feeling, the
r u s h, it's indescribable. Yet here I am, trying to describe it. This art you make, this feeling that courses throughout your veins, it feels so real and yet it is so much more than this world. So much more that the sky above your mind, more than the ground beneath your feet, more than the blood running through you. How can something,this feeling,  be so much more than everything yet be nothing? Art. It is so beautifully composed, isn't it?