Snore. Symbolism is passé. Expressionism's threadbare and enigmatic and surrealism's reduced to cartoon placemats covering picnic tables in Miro's backyard—the spaces where original art exists are few and the gulf between them is as comparatively large as the spaces between electrons and a nucleus—ah, and with that, I have no hope at all. The art is dead and obscured by sympathies, but ironically, sympathies keep me alive and aching for aesthetic ecstasy, an ecstasy beyond erotic, exiguous, physical contact—contact that makes me feel like a frog or lobster left in a pot of water brought slowly to boil becoming lethal without the natural warning signals—without the textbook evaluations of right-brain, without mammalian decadence, without capricious decoration shouting for me to look at it, that simple and arbitrary reptilian expressiveness that defies interpretation except by an intrinsic intuition that deciphers razorblade-laced ball bearings within the logical abstractions of deconstructed figures. Twist colors, textures, and lines—reassemble them in a collage of metaphysical scraps and discarded philosophies—but none of it can exorcise god-want from the pleading soul. Wake up, Damian Hirst!