There's art lurking in each living cell of our concrete paradise. There is wonder and awe within the ribs of people working in offices. In cubicles. Unveiled, in the shadowy silence of the city. Or within roaring walls of crushing sound. The glamor of the damned. The last anthem for the sons of perdition. As we float aimlessly through the ocean of time our spirit dilates and melts into the collective conscience. Emotions, trapped in photographs like sand in an hourglass. We will be forgotten. Our existence will become meaningless. Nature and all living things will move on. The earth will be engorged with our bodies. Our loved ones will wither and our homes be brought down by decay. And then what? What significance will a moment in time have upon this stubborn carousel that refuses to stop for anyone? None. Will music mourn your loss? Will poetry shed a tear of ink? Will the world be moved by your departure? No. You will be a simple leaf carried by the winds of october. Carried softly to the earth it once sprung from. So why  remain idle in this short fraction of time molded by chaos? Death is always one heartbeat away. But what about life?