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What you call art is built on the graves of the heartbroken, the dream chasers, the lovers of life, the men and women of sorrow, the children of grief who only pray for a beautiful tomorrow.
These are there technicolor tears morphed into words, sonnets, canvas, clay; just an angst of a thought of a beautiful day.
We live our fortunes, draw misery from the the well of our emptiness and pour it all over ourselves to engulf us in love. All you see is art, all you see is Color, all you can ever see is our shadow.