it is somewhat juvenile to admit it, and you won't, not here anyway, but we know that your heart is most mended, most full, most unknotted, when your senses are filled with Art. crude, plebeian as you are, all things you judge fine in the world hold you in their thrall. all things fine sate your sense of the lofty, of the sort of beauty you could never tire of consuming with your eyes, your mouth, your fingers. you are a fool. but not because you think only words endure while flesh is always treacherous.
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