Arrested frustrations festooned with filtered folly! To die! to sleep! To sleep! Perchance to dream! Rubes rubbing rubber baby buggy bumpers!
Electric penguins flash adamant cymbals clashing against the iron sky!
To die? When die-cut stickers make mockery of Art?! Out, out, brief shish kebab of silent sibilance!
Never! Never shall Narcissus-X say "die!" For Narcissus-X is Art, and Art is Narcissus-X, and Art must out!
Or is that "murder must out?" No, that's "murder will out," or "Murder Must Advertise:" NO! NO! NO! Simplistic shamans of simpering solutions!!! Or was that Sherlock Holmes?
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Silent sibilance! Sibilant silence! She sells sea shells by the sea shore, but never asks for whom the bell tolls!
Should auld acquaintance be forgot? Should Art ape actuality?
And if Art ascends beyond the habitually hackneyed mediocrity of mendacious manipulations? Away with aesthetics! Begone, platitudinous posturings!
But what then?!
If Art abdicates aesthetics, retreats from reason, disdains the poetry of sight: does art become anti-Art?! And if anti-Art be Art, then Art, to be Art, must oppose the shimmering shibboleth of sententious anti-Art?!
For if anti-Art is the formalistic anti-formalism of conventional informalistic eccentricity? Then Art must, if Art is to be truly free from the fetters of convention: adhere to conventions?!
Narcissus-X must ponder this imponderable puzzle.