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"Under the white clouds, snow is falling.
You can't see the white clouds, or the snow.
Or the cold, or the white glow of the earth.
A solitary man glides downhill on his skis.
The snow is falling.
It falls until the man disappears back into the landscape.
My friend Serge, who's one of my oldest friends, has bought a painting.
It's a canvas about five feet by four.
It represents a man who moves across a space then disappears." Art, Y.Reza 


1. Art is what you make of it. You construct your own interpretation - if you find something worthy of being deemed 'meaningful', then it becomes art to you. 

2. What does it matter anyway? Our lives are given to us then rudely taken away in a moment, like a man who moves across a space then disappears. Our tiny little lives look the same from afar anyway, homogenous, indistinct, indistinguishable - a blank canvas. Who but we to formulate some sort of meaning for the little speck of existence we share. 

3. It is art because it means that much to you, and you mean that much to me. 


You accost me this 
and that 

my decisions 
my follies 
my indecisions 

Prithee, be kind 

Remember me, 
a being before you.  
A being that you can touch and hold, 
who can bend and break,
who has cried out for mercy. 

Mercy me, please. 

I am skiing down a mountain and you are the only one that can see me, 
so save me. 
Keep your eyes firmly on me, 
don't let go. 

Witness my exit -
I fade to 

white 








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