what is genius? a fleeting gift? a destination? a standard?
but then again, what good is a definition when there is no beauty in it.
i say, find me the passion, i'll give you the title. he did.
i just failed to see it.
art is a vice. you don't marry it legitimately, you rape it.
-edgar degas
how is this so? the concept put before my eyes, and yet.. who are you?
what would your biggest torture in your final hours be?
your deepest, darkest secrets in the closet shown to you on a silver screen,
or the happiest moments you could have had?
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