Nothings Can Suffice

How can we adjust to the modern expectation of the artist? Is there any way to salvage such a tired and excruciating stereotype, antiquated to within an inch of its life for the merriment of those who know nothing about it in the first place. Now art, forever that damsel in distress, is searching and wailing for a scrap of something we once used to call dignity.

Unobstructed viewings, all day: ten for a dollar. All you can view, punctured with a fork and strewn across the room for nothing but your pure enjoyment. We must all endure lean times, and I for one can attest to the horror that we call the vermilion trouser foible bazaar–

Lame little nothings can suffice,
but you know the greater ones
always stick to the back seat anyway.


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