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Death follows artists, like a shiny dragon, it breathes heavily from behind their backs and lays its chin onto the artists’ shoulders, thus joining their observations. Art and death are married, they look onto each other from different sides of a teardrop. They go out together sometimes, but their dates are always tensed and nervous. Their conversations are clumsy; art always remains unsatisfied with the precision of one’s own language, never able to finish a phrase, blushing through the layer of concealer, mumbling and stuttering, and death always remains silent, and there is no way to know, does this silence denote its arrogance or its confusion.

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