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The heart of an artist is the language of silence, a nameless word passing through time. It doesn't beat for life or anyone, but breathes in absence. Between being and not being, it depicts an unfinished world.
Familiar with darkness, not from weakness, but connection, it swallows pain and transforms it. Every work is a bridge between reality and possibility.
Its heart is boundless, a place where feeling transcends reason. It doesn't speak the truth, but feels it and makes it last.
Within it, a thousand unfinished selves live. It cannot be complete, for the end is death. As long as the artist is unfinished, they are alive. 9 replies
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