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  1. That’s the thing with art. How many paintings and drawings and sculptures and tattoos and sketches and poems and gifts have been made of the red rose? Thousands? millions? And yet still we can see the beauty in it. The sharpness of the thorns don’t dull. The the delicate scent doesn’t fade. The soft petals don’t wither. No, instead, the artist, so moved feels compelled to capture the emotion that he himself feels. Has it all been done before? Surely. But that doesn’t mean we stop. It’s part of the beauty and wonder of being human, right? To let the sorrow and the ache, the joy and the laughter, the light and the melancholy, the love and the desperation inspire us to *create*. I think it’s a glorious thing. Let’s just keep doing -that- okay?

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