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Art was free, undefined, explicit, and neutral, until a point when trauma and disappointments kick in and reside within my threads of thought permanently. A symbiotic relation was then established to feed me with aesthetic inspirations, and such vulnerable relation has to be reinforced through constant violation of ethical standards and over-consumption of eccentric informal medium and ideology. 

Art is ephemeral and debatably inaccessible. I sacrifice means of chasing elitism and redeeming classism rewards, but ponder within anxiety the strategy of retrieving a single-entry ticket to this dystopia.